


The Next Level

by azriona



Series: The Next Level 'Verse [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Culture Shock, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fluff, Happy Ending, Living Together, M/M, Miscommunication, Moving In Together, Moving to Saint Petersburg, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 01, Reverse Culture Shock, Slice of Life, Victor's Return to Competition, Yuuri's anxiety will show up in here somewhere, posting as a WIP, the rating is for later chapters, trust me we're gonna get the good stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2018-10-17 18:25:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 216,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10599636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: The skating season continues (as skating seasons are wont to do), while Victor and Yuuri negotiate the shifts in their relationship, their careers, and their home rink.Sometimes, things even go as planned.





	1. The GPF Banquet, Redux

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve used transliterations for foreign languages instead of using Cyrillic, Kanji, or Katakana, since I’m assuming most people can’t read those languages. Hover text should give translations for those who can access them; for everyone else, if the context doesn’t make it clear what the characters are saying, translations will always be at the end of the chapter.
> 
> I’ve taken some liberties with the competition schedule and locations; because I am terrible, I've sort of combined the calendars for both the 2015-2016 and the 2016-2017 seasons. I actually have a calendar posted next to my writing desk with all the events and movements marked on it. (What can I say, I'm a Ravenclaw at heart.) My interpretation of how current Russian figure skaters actually train is 98% made up. I have no idea how Russian figure skaters train, and this is probably way more of a Soviet mindset than is currently in use. Authorial handwave engaged.
> 
> Drinkingcocoa and I discussed this idea in depth almost from the beginning; thanks to her for her ice skating expertise. Thanks to hannibalnuxvomica, tokyopt, auntiesuze, and Gwendolyn Grace for being flexible and fabulous betas. Gwendolyn betaed this as part of the Fandom Trumps Hate auction (hence the tags); thank you very much for donating your time and expertise! In addition, rogovich has been assisting with Russian translations and cultural notes. Thank you very much for making sure Victor, Yakov, Yuri et al don't sound like Google Translations!

There’s never a quiet hush in an empty stadium. There is always noise – whether it’s the sound of the fans circulating air or the creaks and groans of the beams that hold up the rooftop. There’s remembered echoes of cheers and jeers, the shouts of triumph and heartbreak, the shuffle of feet and the hush of a crowd waiting for the next surprise.

“Doorstops.”

“Earrings – big ones!”

An hour after the Grand Prix Final concludes, there’s still a hum in the ice rink at the Centre de Convencions Internacional de Barcelona. Work crews clean up the debris left by the crowds: discarded cups and programs, forgotten souvenirs, abandoned streamers and signs touting support for one skater or another. The banners and temporary walls remain for the exhibition skate still to come, but already the vendors are checking their inventory, changing their stock, readying themselves for new and repeated spectators alike.

“Dog tags.”

“Tiles for the bathroom.”

Two men sit on the floor near the ice, completely oblivious to anything but each other. One straddles the other, still wearing his costume and skates and silver medal. The man sitting beneath him wears a three-piece suit under a tan overcoat. They’re both smiling and giggling, and everyone who glances at them smiles indulgently before looking away.

“Not even you have won enough medals to tile an entire bathroom,” laughs Katsuki Yuuri, giving his lover a fond look.

“One wall at a time,” says Victor Nikiforov, self-assured as always. “Or we can keep the extras in shoeboxes.”

“Extras? How many medals do you think we’re going to win?”

“All of them, of course!”

“We can’t win all of them! There’s three medals in every competition, and only two of us.”

“We’ll win the rest in dance-offs,” says Victor, as if this is the most logical thing.

Yuuri buries his smile in Victor’s neck. Victor smells of sweat and relief and wool, and Yuuri breathes it in. The tension he’s been feeling for days is replaced by a buoyant lightness that makes him want to run straight back on the ice to see if he could pull off five rotations before landing again.

 _This is happy_ , thinks Yuuri hazily.  _I have to remember this feeling._

Victor’s coat is rough against his cheek and Yuuri’s back aches with the way he’s hunched over him. Yuuri doesn’t even care. Luckily, Victor opens his legs, and Yuuri slips through to sit on the floor. The relief in his lower back is palpable and immediate; Yuuri’s  _oof_  isn’t pained as it is surprised.

“I don’t think I can win a dance-off unless I’m blackout drunk, and I’m  _not_  going to get myself blackout drunk so that we can have a gold medal bathroom.”

“Fine then,” says Victor, waving the problem away. “I’m also very good at poker.”

“You’re very good at teasing me.”

“I’m very good at lots of things,” says Victor. He moves his hand down Yuuri’s back to the top of his ass. Yuuri lets out a sharp squeak, squirming until he realizes what he’s squirming  _near_.

“Victor!” he hisses, mortified and in love. “There’s  _people_.”

“Mmm.” Victor nuzzles against Yuuri’s cheek, but his hand moves back up to Yuuri’s waist. “We could wear them all the time. I think you would look very good in your medals. And my medals. And nothing else.”

Yuuri doesn’t even bother to chastise him – but that’s probably because Victor nuzzles closer to Yuuri’s mouth, and he can feel Victor’s breath on his lips. Victor’s other hand holds the back of Yuuri’s neck, his thumb gently pressing on Yuuri’s ear. Yuuri hears the soft roar of his own blood pumping. It’s a familiar soundtrack.

“All that weight will break my neck – or make me permanently hunched over.”

Victor’s voice is teasing. “Is this another joke about how old I am?”

It wasn’t, but Yuuri knows better than to let opportunity slide. “What do you think?” he says, putting as much sauce as he can into his voice. He’s rewarded with Victor’s dramatic, mournful sigh.

“I think Yuuri is flaunting his youth at me! What is that Beatles song? When I’m sixty-four? That should be my short program.”

Yuuri’s soft laughter fades, and he presses closer to Victor, holding his breath. The moment stretches slow and thick. It’s always like this, when there are too many contradictory thoughts in his head. When he’s suddenly aware of everything that goes unsaid, and there’s too much of it for him to consider.

Victor goes still, as if waiting for Yuuri to speak.

_Of course. He knows my tells now._

“Victor.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you really going to keep coaching me?”

Victor’s hands grip Yuuri a bit tighter. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? I promised to coach you until you retire. You’re not retiring, and I’m not going to break my promise.”

Yuuri knows Victor is looking at him, waiting for Yuuri to say what’s on his mind. Victor will wait as long as necessary – silence between them is never a problem, because there’s always been so  _much_  of it. Silence while they organize their thoughts, translate from one language to the other. It’s never been uncomfortable, either.

Yuuri can see the medal hanging from his neck, slowly turning in the space between them. The silver catches the light as it spins and bounces it onto Victor’s chest. It shifts with every breath he takes.

“It’s just… You can’t coach me  _and_  keep yourself in competitive form. It just makes more sense if—”

Victor’s fingers tighten as he frowns. “Don’t you want me as your coach, Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s heart stutters. “Yes! But—”

Victor leans in and kisses the side of his neck. “Then don’t worry about it,  _solnyshko_. It’ll be fine.”

“Victor—”

Victor’s fingers are light on Yuuri’s cheek as they gently guide Yuuri’s face up for a kiss. Yuuri knows it’s Victor’s way of avoiding the conversation – it’s what Victor  _does_ , when he doesn’t want to discuss something. Most of the time, it’s things that don’t really matter so much – where they’ll eat for dinner, who will take Makkachin on her walk, how many more times Yuuri wants to practice his quad Salchow before working on their pair skate.

They’ll have to discuss it eventually. It’s much more important than the color of Yuuri’s costumes. But Yuuri likes the kissing. The kissing is good, and Victor’s mouth is warm and gentle. It’s quelling the nervous flutter in Yuuri’s chest, the one he doesn’t much want to think about, either.

“Later,  _da_?” says Victor, in between kisses. “Plenty of time.”

It’s impossible to read Victor’s expression this close, which Victor undoubtedly knows. Victor’s fingers are careful weights on Yuuri’s cheeks, his breath is warm and soft, and he smells of the cologne that always makes Yuuri want to bury his nose into Victor’s neck.

_The next season doesn’t even begin until summer. He’s right. We’ve got time._

“Okay,” says Yuuri. He relaxes into the sensation of Victor’s lips on his cheeks, his nose, his jawline. Victor’s lips are smooth, and Yuuri suppresses a giggle at the thought that soon enough, they’ll be as chapped as his own lips are. Better to enjoy them soft while he still can.

“You’ll have to start training with me,” says Yuuri as he breaks into a grin. “I’m going to like waking you up for 5am runs. No more sleeping in just because you’re the coach!”

Victor makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, the sort that always precedes what ought to be a perfectly reasonable sentence if it weren’t also said in a tone of voice that Yuuri is convinced Victor learned from Christophe. Or maybe Chris learned it from Victor and just never learned how to turn it off. “ _Yuu-ri_! There’s much more pleasant ways to get cardio at 5am.”

Yuri laughs. “That’s never worked on me before, it’s not going to work on me now,” he says, sing-song, as prim and proper as he can manage. “Four kilometers, Victor, every morning.”

“Not tomorrow. Tomorrow, I intend to find out what it’s like to make love when it’s my lover wearing the medal.”

Victor’s fingers run down the ribbon around Yuuri’s neck, straight to the silver medal still hanging between them. Yuuri lets out a soft  _Ohhhhh_ , and Victor chuckles as his fingers play with the medal.

It’s not gold. Yuuri’s heart twists with nerves.

_He’s right – once he starts competing, I’m going to have my work cut out for me if I want to win those gold medals I owe him. But I’ve got three more chances this year – I can’t slack off!_

“Hey,” says Yuuri, as he wraps his hand around the back of Victor’s neck. Victor looks up from the medal. His eyes are wide and startled; Yuuri thinks Victor must hear the firmness in his voice, the way he’s pulling their light-hearted banter toward a more serious conversation.

Good. He wants Victor to  _hear_  this, for exactly what it is.

“Don’t you dare slack off just because you want me to get the five golds I owe you. If you’re on the ice, you better be on the ice to  _win_.”

Victor’s eyes  _shine_. Yuuri’s heart beats a little harder in his chest.

_He heard me. Good._

“Five  _world championships_ ,” Victor corrects him. “That’s what I want from you. Not just gold medals.”

Yuuri starts to laugh. “Victor! Five world championships? I’ll be skating until I’m older than you! What if I win Olympic gold next year – wouldn’t that count?”

“Yuuri! Eyes on the Olympics already? I like your enthusiasm.” Victor sits back up again, tapping his mouth thoughtfully. “There should be a scale. An Olympic gold must be worth at least one and a half World championships. Three national titles equals one world championship.”

Yuuri groans. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“The math is complicated with the Grand Prix,” continues Victor, now on a roll. “It’s the number of medals divided by pi, and you have to factor in the square root of the final competition score—”

“ _Stooooop_ ,” exclaims Yuuri. But the only way to ensure  _that_ is to kiss him – so Yuuri does.

The rest of Victor’s algorithm – and Yuuri prays that he was making it up on the spot – is quickly swallowed, licked up by Yuuri’s tongue. The medal bumps their chests between them.

“Besides – all it takes is one gold for us to marry. Any gold.”

Yuuri breaks into giggles again.  _Marriage_. He’s still having trouble wrapping his head around the idea. Maybe by the time he’s used to the weight of the ring wrapped around his finger, he’ll be okay with it.

“Okay,” he says, giggling.

“In the meantime, we still should figure out what to do with this,” says Victor, tapping the silver medal again. “It’s not going in my gold medal bathroom.”

“Paperweight,” says Yuuri, a little bit giddy.

“Belt buckle,” says Victor, which makes Yuuri laugh.

“Hockey puck!”

“Poker chip.”

“You’re not allowed to gamble with my medal,” says Yuuri. “You have plenty of your own!”

“But once we’re married, what’s mine is yours and yours is mine.”

“That doesn’t include  _my_  medals!”

“ _Yuu-ri_! I wanted to see you wear my medals!”

“You want me to break my neck so you can win more!”

Yuuri tickles him, and Victor jerks a bit under him. He falls backwards, laughing. Yuuri can’t stop laughing, either.

“Yuuri,” says Victor. He’s still laughing, but there’s surprise in his voice as he looks around the stadium. Yuuri shifts so that he’s sitting next to Victor, facing the ice and…

“Oh,” says Yuuri, wondering why he should feel so surprised when he looks at the empty stands. “Everyone’s gone.”

The cameras have been powered down and covered for the night, the kiss-and-cry doesn’t exist any longer. Yuuri hears the clean-up crews far off in the grandstands, but there’s no one near them just then. They’re not alone, exactly, but he wonders if everyone has kept their distance to afford them a little more privacy.

_They’ll be trying to set up for the exhibition skate tomorrow. It’s nice that they’ve given us space, but… we’re in their way._

“We should go if we don’t want to miss the banquet,” says Victor.

Yuuri snort and gets to his feet. “I don’t see the problem.”

Victor sits up. “Yuuri, as your coach, I should remind you that the banquet is a very important opportunity for you to meet and greet your sponsors in a genteel, civilized space with your fellow athletes.”

“Uh-huh,” says Yuuri skeptically. He reaches down and clasps Victor’s hand to help him up. “And this has nothing to do with Chris claiming to have brought the pole again.”

“To be fair,” says Victor, holding tight to Yuuri’s hand, “I’m not entirely convinced that Chris was referring to an actual  _pole_.”

It takes Yuuri a minute.

“Oh my—” Yuuri can feel his face flush. Victor bursts into laughter. “That’s –  _that’s not funny_!”

“I want you to  _remember_  it this time, Yuuri. Even if there aren’t any dance-offs.”

“I’ve had all the dance-offs I can handle in a lifetime,” says Yuuri firmly. “And anyway, I’ve already won just about everything I want.”

“Oh?” says Victor.

Yuuri smiles and squeezes Victor’s hand. “The only things left I have to win, I need to win on the ice.”

“Win Yuri’s gold in a dance-off, and we can get married tomorrow,” says Victor mischievously.

Yuuri laughs.

*

The banquet isn’t as horrible as Yuuri fears. He’s not sure if it’s because he feels like he  _belongs_  there, instead of feeling like he’d be better off curled up in his hotel room and hidden under the covers the entire night. Or maybe it’s the way Victor stays close until it’s clear that Yuuri isn’t planning to make a run straight back to the elevators.

“Yuuri!” calls out Celestino. “Congratulations! I knew you had it in you.”

“Me too,” says Victor proudly. If Yuuri hears a little bit of a sultry smirk in there, he’s going to ignore it. Even if Christophe is just behind Celestino making all kinds of inappropriate faces.

“Thanks,” says Yuuri, blushing a little bit. He’s not going to look at Victor. Or Christophe.  _Or anybody_. “Your support still means a lot to me.”

“Of course I want you to do well,” says Celestino. “You’ll always be my student, even if Victor is your coach now. I imagine Yakov feels the same about Victor. He’s looking for you, by the way,” Celestino adds to Victor. “He won’t admit it, but—”

Victor brightens. “Oh, good, he must have news about Nationals.”

Yuuri’s eyes furrow. “Nationals?”

“I’ll just go find him,” says Victor. He leans over to kiss Yuuri’s cheek. “Ten minutes of power pulls if I find you anywhere other than this room,  _solnyshko_.”

“Right,” says Yuuri, still confused. He watches Victor bound across the dance floor, before turning back to Celestino. “Do you know what that’s about?”

“Yuuri!” shouts Phichit. Yuuri’s tackled from the side before Celestino can answer. “Did you wear it?”

Yuuri laughs, even if he’s still trying to track Victor across the room. “No, of course not! You can come by the room later and see it, if you want.”

“We need a picture,” says Phichit. He holds up his phone, ready for a selfie. “Ciao Ciao, you too!”

Celestino chuckles and lets Phichit take the picture. “Enough – you have sponsors to meet, Phichit. Yuuri, has Victor taken you on the rounds yet?”

“Huh?” Yuuri glances back to where he last saw Victor – and yes, there he is, talking animatedly with Yakov, whose arms are crossed as he gives Victor a death glare that Victor is obviously ignoring. “Yeah, a few of them. Yakov doesn’t look very happy, does he?”

“Is Yakov ever happy?” wonders Phichit.

“Just – Victor’s going back to skating. I’d think Yakov would be happy about that; he was really upset when Victor left to coach me.”

Yuuri doesn’t miss the glance Phichit and Celestino share. “Victor’s coming back?” repeats Celestino.

“Wow,  _Yuuri_ ,” breathes Phichit. “You’ll get to compete against him! It’s like everything you wanted! You’ll be  _skating husbands!_ ”

“We’re not married  _yet_ ,” says Yuuri, embarrassed.

“You can train in Bangkok with us,” continues Phichit excitedly. “Celestino can take you back! It’ll be like old times in Detroit! But with better food!”

“Phichit,” says Celestino, amused and warning at the same time.

“Oh!” says Yuuri, startled. “Um. Thanks, but – Victor’s going to keep coaching me.”

“What?” says Celestino, now startled. “Yuuri, are you sure that’s a good—?”

“ _KATSUDON_ , you’re with me!”

Yuri Plisetsky walks by. Without breaking his stride, he reaches over, grabs Yuuri by the front of his suit coat, and drags him out of the conversation and across the dance floor in the direction of where Yakov has now turned into a screaming, incomprehensible Russian mouthpiece.

Victor smiles benignly at his former coach, as if Yakov is describing his last vacation to a tropical island and not having an apoplectic fit.

“Ah – Yurio!” gasps Yuuri, struggling to keep up without falling over. Not that it would stop Yurio; he’d probably just keep dragging Yuuri closer to Yakov’s fury. “Um – hi?”

“Your  _boyfriend_  is stealing our thunder,” gripes Yurio. “Honestly, what is the point of you, if you can’t even keep him in line?”

“Is this about him coming back to skating next year?”

Yurio stops so suddenly that Yuuri runs into him – but Yurio stands his ground. While Yuuri is left fumbling to right his glasses on his nose, Yurio just stares at him in shock.

“ _Next_  year? You think—”

“Well, he can’t come back  _this_  year, he gave us his programs, don’t you remember?”

“I’m not the one with the crap memory, Katsudon,” snipes Yurio. “Whereas your  _boyfriend_  has apparently forgotten that coaches are meant to show up to competitions with their students.”

“What are you talking about?” asks Yuuri. Victor is still smiling at Yakov, bright and cheerful and impossibly optimistic.

“He wants to return for Russian Nationals.  _This_  year.”

Yuuri’s blood runs cold. Yakov is still yelling – Victor is still smiling.

“This year?” echoes Yuuri. “I thought we were talking about  _next_  season.”

Yurio shrugs. “He told Yakov, he wants to be back for Nationals. Asked him to put in the paperwork and all that.”

Yuuri’s mind is a roaring tsunami rising swiftly on the shore. “But… they’re the same time as Japanese Nationals.”

“Exactly,” says Yurio. He turns so that he can watch the show along with Yuuri. “But your boyfriend has the memory of a swiss cheese, so—” He shrugs. “And you’re incapable of landing a quad if he’s not within a hundred yards, so I guess that it’s for your career, huh?”

The words sting, even if they’re not  _technically_  true; Yuuri landed quads before Victor, if not as many.

What’s strange is Yurio’s tone. It’s almost sympathetic.

_Victor just forgot about Japanese Nationals. He’s got a horrible memory, he barely remembers what day of the week it is._

_He’s always taken coaching me seriously. He wouldn’t leave me alone for Nationals… would he?_

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my fiancé,” says Yuuri, which is… completely not what he was thinking, or intending to say.

“Don’t remind me,” mutters Yurio, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Are you freaking out? Quit freaking out.”

“Of course I’m freaking out, you just told me Victor’s going to be in  _Russia_  when I’m at Nationals in  _Japan_ ,” snapped Yuuri.

“Ooo, Katsudon has a spine,” says Yurio. “I’m scared. Don’t worry. Yakov’s telling him it’s impossible anyway.”

It should have been a relief – it wasn’t. “He seems to be taking it well.”

“He’s not a complete idiot. He hasn’t trained in eight months, he honestly thinks he’s going to go out and land quads next week like it’s picking daisies?  _Durak_.” Yurio shrugs. “Anyway, you can keep your coach. For a little while longer, anyway.”

“He says he’s going to keep coaching me while he competes,” says Yuuri.

“Then you’re both morons. Whatever.” Yurio kicks at the floor. “I’m not dancing with you this year.”

This was safer ground; Yuuri’s relieved the change the subject, even if he knows he’s still going to fret about it. “I’m not drinking, so I think you’re safe.”

The arm that suddenly presses down on Yuuri’s shoulders is entirely unexpected. “When do we get started, boys?” purrs Christophe, weight pressing down on Yuuri. “I’ve been  _practicing_.”

“Please don’t refer to your  _skating programs_  as  _practice_ ,” scoffs Yurio. “I’m a minor, I shouldn’t have even been in the same  _room_  as them.”

Victor seems to be done arguing with Yakov – at least, he’s done letting Yakov argue at him, since Victor’s only participation had been to smile brightly and ignore him. He’s heading back to Yuuri. Yuuri feels his heart flip in his chest.

_You’re honestly going to come back over here like nothing happened?!?_

“Ah, Yuri. A kitten with the claws of a tiger. I remember being young and innocent,” sighs Chris.

“You were  _never_  young and innocent,” says Yurio.

“He was, actually,” says Victor. He reaches over to pick Chris’s arm off Yuuri’s shoulders. “I’m not sure what corrupted him. It wasn’t me.”

“No, he was much taller than you are,” says Chris, clearly lost in a pleasant memory. Yurio makes a horrified sound and worms his way out from under Chris’s other arm.

“Ugh, you’re horrible, I hope you all fall off a cliff and die.”

“Your boyfriend won’t dance with me,” Chris says to Victor with sad puppy eyes.

“Fiancé,” Victor corrects him. “That is because he has a sense of self-preservation. And decorum. And has already told me that he’s not drinking tonight. Which is really a shame for all of us.”

“I even brought a pole,” says Chris sadly, which prompts Yurio to let out a strangled, horrified yell before running across the dance floor as if his shoes are on fire. “Yuuri – allow me at least  _one_  bright memory until I see you again at Worlds?”

“If I’m even  _at_  Worlds,” says Yuuri. Victor stiffens next to him.

“Of course you’ll be at Worlds,” he says. “Don’t be so negative! You’ve been skating beautifully, there’s no reason why—”

“When you’re here, yeah,” counters Yuuri. “But if you’re in training for Russian Nationals –  _which is the same time as Japanese Nationals_ —”

“You’re returning?” says Chris, glancing back and forth between them.

“Yes – no – I mean –  _eurgh_.” Victor runs his hand through his hair. “Yuuri, I’m not going to compete in Russian Nationals this year. The rosters are already arranged and Yakov says the FFKK won’t alter them even for me.”

Yuuri’s not sure he’s mollified – even if he does feel a wave of relief. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I forgot it was the same time as Japan’s Nationals,” says Victor with a shrug. “Yakov reminded me. Just as well – it gives me more time to prepare for the Europeans.”

“You’ll be at the Europeans?” says Chris, his eyes lighting up. “Really? Don’t play with my heart, Vitya.”

Victor laughs. “Yes, yes. You’ll get to skate against me again, Chris. Only I’ve got the advantage, since I know your programs!”

“Oh, I might have a few tricks up my sleeve,” says Chris. His eyes are positively  _shining_. “Along with the pole.”

“Enough with the pole,” says Victor as he takes Yuuri’s hand. His hand is warm, and Yuuri grips it hard. His heart pounds in his chest and he’s finding it almost hard to breathe. If he grips Victor’s hand hard enough, it might be enough to center him from doing something colossally stupid.

_Like going and drowning myself in the champagne over there. Victor’s returning this year._

_THIS IS NOT WHAT I THOUGHT WE’D TALKED ABOUT._

Yuuri closes his eyes and focuses on the feel of Victor’s hand. It works. The party is a buzz in the background; Chris’s and Victor’s voices are marginally louder than the rest, but they’ve slid from English into French, which makes them easier to ignore. Probably talking about him – or at least something they don’t want him to understand. That’s okay, that’s just fine, because right now Yuuri’s sure he doesn’t understand anything, let alone Victor.

The only thing that  _does_ make sense is the feel of Victor’s hand in his, the cut of the ring he’s wearing digging into his finger, reminding him of their promises to each other.

_You promised you’d be my coach until I retire. But if we’re both competing, how are you going to keep that promise? No one else has ever competed and coached at the same time – will the ISU even allow you to do that? Isn’t it a conflict of interest?_

_And who will coach you, Victor? You can’t do it by yourself._

“Yuuri.”

_I can’t think about this now. I won’t. Yurio might think you’re stealing his thunder – but I won’t let you steal mine._

Yuuri opens his eyes to see Victor standing in front of him, smiling, if a bit worried. Chris is nowhere to be seen.

“Dance with me?” asks Victor, smiling as if the entire world is perfectly aligned and everything is beautiful.

Which it is. There’s a silver medal back in their hotel room and Victor’s coming back to the ice. Yuuri isn’t retiring, he’s engaged to  _Victor Nikiforov_ , and his mother is probably already buying the ingredients for katsudon.

Phichit’s right: it’s everything Yuuri ever dreamed about when he was younger.

Well, the rings on their fingers is a new addition, but Yuuri isn’t going to complain.

“Okay,” says Yuuri, and he lets Victor spin him around to the music.

*

When Yuuri wakes up the next morning, he and Victor are sprawled over the pushed-together beds, covers twisted around Victor’s torso and Yuuri’s legs. The curtains are pulled against the morning sunshine, and Yuuri’s mouth tastes  _terrible_.

He frantically goes over his memory of the night before, and with a relieved sigh, finds he’s able to recall all the salient details, including how it ended.

_Victor wobbles on his feet as he stands in the middle of their hotel room, letting Yuuri pull the coat and tie off him with gentle hands._

_“I insist, Yuuri,” says Victor in the imperious, non-negotiable way he has. “You will wear the medal tonight.”_

_“Okay,” says Yuuri, because he’s confident that Victor’s not going to be awake past the minute his head hits the pillow._

_“Tomorrow night, too.”_

_“I’m not wearing the medal during the exhibition skate, Victor. That’s just crass.”_

_“It’s not brass, it’s silver.”_

_Yuuri laughs. “Crass, Victor. I thought you learned your English from television?”_

_“It must be an Americanism.” Victor leans in and whispers loudly. “I learned from the BBC!”_

Victor hadn’t even made it as far as the pillow; he’d fallen asleep standing up while extolling the virtues of Fawlty Towers and then fallen over while Yuuri tried to unbuckle his belt.

When Yuuri turns to look at Victor now, he’s surprised to see Victor’s awake, blue eyes half-lidded and a gentle smile on his face.

“Oh,” says Yuuri softly. “Victor! Good morning. How are you feeling?”

“Sad,” says Victor, still smiling.

Yuuri blinks. “Oh – does your head hurt? I’ve got some ibuprofen in my bag. You should drink some water, too—”

Yuuri starts to roll away – but Victor reaches out and touches his arm lightly. “We didn’t have a chance to celebrate your win yesterday.”

Yuuri’s heart suddenly hammers in his chest. “Not really.”

Victor moves on the bed, wincing but undeterred. He wraps his hand around the back of Yuuri’s head, pulling him in for a kiss.

Yuuri lets himself relax into it; Victor’s lips are gentle on his, his tongue just lightly brushing against Yuuri’s skin. It’s a comfortable, hazy good-morning kiss, and Yuuri settles into it easily. He slides as close to Victor as he can until he can feel the thump of Victor’s heart against the palm of his hand.

They’ve been sleeping together for a month – ever since Yuuri’s return from Moscow – but kissing Victor like this still feels illicit and dangerous and  _new_. Even an innocent kiss like this is enough for Yuuri to feel butterflies in his stomach, the curious sensation of his entire body fizzing away.

He’s okay with that. He’s  _more_  than okay with that. He loves it.

“I’m glad I could dance with you again,” Victor whispers in his ear between kisses, and Yuuri giggles.

“I’m glad I remember it this time.”

“You do?” Victor pulls back and smiles brightly. “Good. I wasn’t sure I could pole dance as well as Chris—”

Yuuri shoves at his chest. “Victor! Stop teasing me. I know we didn’t pole dance last night.”

Victor’s smile softens as he cups Yuuri’s cheek with his hand. He almost looks serious. He takes a breath, and when he exhales, it’s on a name.

“Vitya.”

Yuuri crinkles his nose. “Huh?”

“We’re engaged, aren’t we? Lovers don’t use proper names for each other in Russia.”

“Oh.” Yuuri flushes. “I didn’t know – you could have said before—”

“I’m saying now.” Victor leans forward and kisses Yuuri’s lips gently. “Please.”

Yuuri’s heart twists – it’s a good twist, though. “That’s what Chris called you, isn’t it? Did you and Chris—?”

“Yuuuri,” chides Victor, still kissing up Yuuri’s jaw. “I thought you didn’t want to know about my past lovers?”

“I don’t,” says Yuuri, as firmly as he can, as quickly as he can. Victor laughs.

“How do Japanese lovers call each other? Is there a word or name you’d like me to use for you?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Ah – no? I mean…” He flushes. “I’ve already been…”

Victor waits patiently, the smile curious and patient on his face.

“I’m already too familiar with you. I should have been calling you Victor-senpai,” mumbles Yuuri. He can’t look up to meet Victor’s eyes, but at least his smile is pleasant enough. “Just your name, without the honorific – it’s kind of intimate already.”

“Yuuri,” says Victor, pleased. “You’ve been referring to me intimately all this time?”

“Yeah,” says Yuuri, his face hot with embarrassment.

“I think I’m shocked.” Victor leans in closer. “And to think you had no faith in your own eros until now.”

“Oh, shut up,” says Yuuri. He leans in to press his lips to Victor’s. He can taste Victor’s laughter; it’s delicious, bubbly and sweet, and it fills Yuuri’s head so full of helium that he thinks his eyes are going to pop.

He whispers it as they break the kiss. “Vitya.”

It’s nice to say, small and sweet and friendly.  _Victor_  might be the World Champion ice skater – untouchable and unfathomable, but Vitya is the man in Yuuri’s bed, who is obsessed with Japanese game shows and giggles when he presses his cold nose into the nape of Yuuri’s neck.

Victor grins against his lips. “Yuuri.”

Yuuri can’t help the giggles that flow out of him – and maybe Victor can’t either, because they’re laughing into each other’s skin at the same rate that they’re slowly pulling off the rest of their clothes.

Victor doesn’t even remind Yuuri about the medal.

At least – not until much, much later.

*

They fly back to Japan the day after the exhibition skate, and even though it’s the end of a time Yuuri will always remember fondly, he’s glad to be going  _home_. His medal is safely tucked into his backpack at his feet, Minako is stalking the Duty Free, Mari has disappeared in search of coffee, and Yuuri’s face mask protects him from being recognized, which is only a problem while he’s near Victor.

Which isn’t a problem at all, because Victor is on the other side of the boarding area, holding court with half a dozen figure skating fans who trailed them from security to the gate. Given the flurry of Russian and the cat-ear headbands, Yuuri suspects they were in Barcelona to follow Yurio, but Victor’s a good distraction, too.

It’s a quiet moment. And as with all quiet moments – Yuuri finds a way to worry himself through it.

 _I’m not sure what Victor’s – Vitya’s_ – _thinking. There’s no way he can get ready for competing by himself. He needs someone to coach him, and there isn’t anyone in Japan who could do it – not half as well as Yakov could._

_What if he wants Yakov to coach him? Yakov’s not going to come to Hasetsu! Where would we even put him, there’s no more room in the inn! My parents can’t run a boarding house for the entire Russian team! Takeshi and Yuuko can’t close the Ice Castle to private practices all the time._

The bench shakes as someone sits next to him.

“Stop it,” says Mari, sliding down into her seat, coffee secure in her hand.

“I’m not doing anything,” says Yuuri automatically.

“Liar. You’re freaking out.”

“I am not!”

“Oh, please,” scoffs Mari. She reaches for her cigarettes, sighs in frustration when she can’t find them, and settles for kicking her bag instead. “You’re so easy to read.”

“Not to everyone,” says Yuuri dryly, eyes still on Victor.

“Yeah, he’s still blinded by love,” says Mari, entirely unsympathetic. She glances at Yuuri’s hand. “Engaged. I would say I didn’t see that coming, except given your reaction at dinner the other night, I think really  _you’re_  the one who didn’t see it coming, sooooo….”

Yuuri looks down at the ring; he can’t help the small smile that creeps on his face. “Yeah. Maybe a little.”

“Your face, when he said it was an engagement ring,” says Mari, a bit dreamily. She shakes her head and starts laughing. “Phichit’s gonna be kicking himself for the next decade about not having his phone out just then.”

Yuuri grins even wider; it’s true, after all. “He asked for a re-enactment.”

“I just bet.” Mari elbows him in the stomach. “You need the Sex Talk? ‘Cause I don’t know much about how tabs and slots work in your case, but I read fanfic, I can probably muddle through—”

Yuuri’s brain short-circuits, and he starts to flail. “Ah! No! No no no, that’s fine, we’re fine, it’s okay, I am  _covered_.”

“By Victor.”

“Shut up!” shrieks Yuuri, before he modulates his voice to a lower decibel, hoping Victor hasn’t overheard. “Just… I’m okay, Mari-neechan. No Sex Talk. I’m good.”

“Then what’s the problem?” asks Mari. “You won silver, you’re engaged to the guy of what I’m assuming are your dreams, judging from the sheer number of posters on your childhood walls, and Mom’s probably already started making the katsudon.”

Maybe it’s the way Yuuri’s heart still pounds from the fright of  _Mari_  giving him the Sex Talk. “He’s coming back to competition, Mari-neechan.”

“Yeah, I heard. Still waiting here.”

Yuuri sighs and slumps down in his seat. Victor is still talking to his fans, laughing and making gestures with his hands, signing whatever they give him. Posing for selfies and just generally being his friendly, affable self.

It’s a mask. Yuuri knows that now, probably better than anyone. It’s the Victor he remembers from a year ago – the unattainable celebrity who only knows how to be a mirror. His fans’ love and affection are reflected right back to them, so when they walk away, they’re still full of joy and excitement, and he’s… untouched, untouchable, aloof and alone.

“Yuuri?” prompts Mari softly.

“How’s this even going to  _work_ , Mari? He can’t compete and coach me at the same time. He hasn’t even been training. I can’t remember the last time he did a quad anything. And he doesn’t have a program choreographed – he gave them both to me and Yurio! Now he’s going to compete against us skating  _his own programs_? That’s just… I can’t even wrap my head around that! What’s he going to do, wear his costume in the kiss-and-cry when I’m getting my scores? No one watching is even going to know which of us just skated!”

“They usually put your name on the screen for that,” Mari says reasonably.

Yuuri starts to giggle. “Mari – what if he skates to  _Eros_? What if he wants to  _wear the same costume?_  We’d have to do a quick-change in the bathroom in between programs!”

Mari stares at him with a slow-moving grin. “You’re slap-happy.”

“I’m engaged to a madman.”

“Good response then.”

“I’m going to skate against Victor, using the programs he choreographed for me,” says Yuuri. “I’m not sure he’s the only madman here.”

“So find another coach.”

“I don’t want another coach! He insists he can coach me and compete at the same time. He’s convinced it will work.”

“Is Victor worried about any of this?”

“No! He’s making plans about the Europeans and trying to find the music for his short program. He’s been stealing everyone’s iPod for the last two days.”

“So he’s not worried,” says Mari, sitting up. “Great. Then you shouldn’t be either.”

“Someone has to—”

“Not you,” says Mari firmly. “This is  _your time_ , little brother. You won silver, you’re engaged to be married, and there’s at least three little kids who have been nearly jumping out of their skin while their parents keep them from bothering you for an autograph. You get to be happy now. Worry about the details later, like a normal person.”

Yuuri sits up a little, already glancing around the waiting area. He’s run into fans before, but they never fail to make him nervous – even the kids, with their wide-eyed devotion, serve only to remind him how very much he doesn’t deserve their admiration.

_I can’t be as gracious as Victor is about it. I always feel like I’m faking it!_

“Where? Are they coming over here? Oh, God, you don’t think they want to  _talk_  to me?”

Mari rolls her eyes. “Three rows behind you – don’t look! Just sit up and act normal. I’ll go away and they’ll come over as soon as they can see you’re not preoccupied. They’re not going to eat you or anything.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Mari punches him in the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, little brother. Let me know if you change your mind on the Sex Talk.”

Yuuri can’t help but laugh. “ _Mari-neechan_.”

The little kids aren’t all that little, maybe ten or eleven years old. Yuuri quickly figures out that they’re aspiring figure skaters too.

“I saw you skate before,” says the littlest one. The other two are immensely shy, but the little girl with her hair in pigtails doesn’t seem like she’s going to stop hopping from foot to foot anytime soon. “You fell on the ice, but you always got back up again.”

“ _Chrissy_ ,” scolds her mother gently, before turning to Yuuri. “Sorry. Chrissy’s skating lessons last year were right after yours, and sometimes we showed up early. Not on purpose – I don’t want you to think we were sneaking in, but sometimes traffic was lighter that day, you know?”

“Yeah,” says Yuuri, with a slow smile. “You’re from Detroit?”

“I’m going to skate Eros in the Grand Prix one day,” says Chrissy.

Yuuri laughs. “I’ll watch you.”

“I won’t touch the ice like you did, though, I promise,” says Chrissy solemnly.

“ _Chrissy!_ ”

“Good,” says Yuuri, as if that memory isn’t going to continue to haunt him for a few more years. He sees Victor coming over from behind them and raises his voice a bit. “Maybe Victor won’t yell at you for messing up his choreography.”

“I didn’t yell,” says Victor. Yuuri grins when both Chrissy and her mom let out a surprised yelp. “I didn’t say a word.”

“You never do,” says Yuuri, fond.

It’s another five minutes before Chrissy and her mother head back to their family, autographs in hand. Yuuri’s not sure Chrissy’s feet are even touching the ground.

Victor slides into the seat Mari vacated and leans in close to Yuuri’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you,  _solnyshko_. Talking to fans on your own volition!”

“Not entirely,” admits Yuuri. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. People recognizing me, and all.”

“They recognize you in Hasetsu.”

“That’s different, they’ve known me all my life there. And Minako keeps the place plastered in posters.”

Victor hums happily and rests his nose against Yuuri’s shoulder for a moment. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh?”

There’s a whoosh and a click as the gate attendant turns on the intercom. “Good afternoon – this is Flight 4547, with service between Barcelona and Tokyo Narita International Airport.”

“That’s us,” says Yuuri. He reaches into the front pocket of his backpack where the boarding passes are waiting.

“Mm-hmm,” says Victor happily. “You aren’t allowed to refuse, because I can’t return it. Minako says if you refuse it, she’ll take it instead.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, curious, but he frowns when the pocket is empty.

_Shit._

“Vitya, do you have the boarding passes?”

“We are pleased to begin boarding our first-class passengers immediately. Please proceed to the boarding gate with your boarding passes.”

“Of course,  _solnyshko_ ,” says Victor cheerfully as he hops to his feet. He grabs Yuuri’s hands and pulls him up as well. “ _Pashli_!”

“They’re not boarding us yet, though,” protests Yuuri. “We’re in coach.”

“No, we’re not!”

“But—” Yuuri stops and stares at him. “ _Victor_!”

Victor grins at him and holds the new boarding passes aloft. For some reason, Yuuri’s eyes immediately focus on the new seat assignments, which are at the front of the plane if the row number is any indication.

“Please don’t make me sit with Minako, Yuuri. She’ll want to talk about Christophe all the way home.”

Yuuri can’t decide if he’s horrified or just shocked. “We can’t just leave them in  _coach_.”

“We haven’t – they’re in business.”

Yuuri’s mind reels.

“Victor,” says Yuuri. “It’s nice of you, but – that’s a lot of money, and—”

Victor steps closer and stops his mouth with a kiss. “Silver medalists don’t sit in coach. More importantly, this is a sixteen-hour flight, and  _I_  am not going to sit in coach. I don’t want your sister anywhere near where she can see us. Besides, I have more frequent flyer miles than I know what to do with, and you need more sleep than a seat in coach will afford.”

“But—”

“Any further arguments will be met with additional power pulls in the morning,” says Victor, holding a finger up in the air.

“You can’t use that as a threat forever.”

“Yes, I can. Let’s board before they hand out all the free champagne.”

Victor turns and continues toward the jetway. Yuuri follows, still tempted to throw a fit even if he’s perfectly aware that it won’t matter.

Besides, Yuuri’s walked through first class before, on his way back to the cramped and uncomfortable seats in coach. He can’t help but think that  _sitting_  in one is going to be an awful lot of fun.

“The truth comes out,” says Yuuri. “You bumped us up to first just to get me drunk on champagne again.”

“Of course not,  _solnyshko_. I was going to do that in coach anyway. Now I don’t have to pay for the champagne.”

Yuuri catches a glimpse of Minako and Mari waving to him just before he gets onto the jetway. They don’t seem the least bit jealous of his new seating arrangements.

 _I wonder if this is what it’s like to be married to a celebrity_ , Yuuri wonders.

“Yuuri! Warm nuts ahead!” sings Victor from the jetway.

“You don’t say,” says Yuuri, amused.

*

They’re halfway over Asia when Yuuri wakes up.

There’s a problem with first-class seats that neither of them realized: they may be very, very comfortable, and they may offer a substantial amount of leg-room. One might even be able to put the seat back far enough that it could reasonably be called a bed.

The seats come with every amenity one could imagine, up to and including heaters, back massagers, footrests, and build-in neck protectors.

They also come with center consoles that ensure one’s seat mate must stretch over a divide larger than the Bering Strait just to hold hands.

“I forgot about that part,” Victor had said, staring at the center console with a disgruntled look on his face while they settled into their places. This was after the flight attendants had handed out the warm nuts and complimentary drinks, taken their coats to hang in the miniscule closets, and offered them menus for the first meal of the flight.

“Wow,” said Yuuri, examining the menu. “ _Vitya_. They’ve got lobster. And steak. And  _freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies._ ”

“Business doesn’t have center consoles,” mused Victor. “Yuuri! Your sister and Minako have been incredibly supportive. Let’s switch with them, they should experience first class.”

“Mari and Minako who?” said Yuuri, and buckled his seat belt.

Yuuri wakes up to the drone of the airplane, the muggy warmth of the blanket covering him, the sharp corner of the console digging into his thigh, and the folds of his facemask, which had slipped out of place, digging into his chin. He shifts on his seat, wondering how it got so  _small_ …

“Ow,” says Victor, wedged in next to him.

That wakes Yuuri up faster than anything short of a freezing cold Christophe Giacometti jumping into his bed. Yuuri sits straight up, nervously looking around to make sure no one can see – but the rest of the plane is fast asleep. Yuuri hunkers back down and pulls the blanket over both their heads for additional privacy. Maybe people will just think he’s gained a lot of weight very quickly.

“Victor!” he hisses. “You’re in my  _seat_.”

“I  _missed_  you.”

Yuuri melts. He nuzzles his face into Victor’s sweater, breathing in the travel-scent of him, perfumed hand lotion and pink almond-scented soap. “Yeah, okay,” he mumbles. He wriggles until he’s wrapped his arms around Victor, who sounds mostly asleep. “As long as no one notices.”

“First class has very nice parachutes.”

Yuuri giggles. “I guess they wouldn’t throw us off the plane.”

“Mmm.” Victor moves a little closer to Yuuri, and his hands travel down to Yuuri’s waist, light and tender. “Yuu-ri.”

Yuuri goes completely still. “Victor. We’re in  _public_.”

“But everyone is sleeping, Yuuri!”

“And they will  _wake up_. Go back to sleep. We’ll be home soon.”

“I have to start training,” says Victor, groggy, right before he slides back into sleep. Yuuri holds his breath until he’s sure Victor is out.

 _Training_.

It’s really happening.

Victor is going to compete and still be Yuuri’s coach.

Yuuri closes his eyes and tries to ignore the gnawing pit in his stomach.

_How is this even going to work?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Durak (Russian)** – fool or moron. I know Yurio used "idiot" in the show, but the Russian word for "idiot" is... well, _idiot_ , which sort of loses its punch when written out.  
>  **Solnyshko (Russian)** – sunshine (as a term of endearment)  
>  **Pashli (Russian)** – Let’s go!


	2. The Semi-Triumphant Return to Hasetsu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betas for this chapter were hannibalnuxvomica, tokyopt, Gwendolyn Grace, and auntiesuze. Rogovich helped with some of the Russian translations as well. Thank you all!

Returning to Japan is a foggy mix of intense relief, earth-shattering horror, and the feeling that at any moment, Yuuri will have an anxiety attack brought on by Victor’s inability to keep his mouth shut.

They’re barely out of passport control at Narita International Airport when the reporters find them. It’s as if they know the moment Yuuri’s feet touch Japanese soil again. The entire country wants to know his opinion about… well, anything. How he felt about his GPF performance, how he is preparing for Nationals, is he going to change his programs based on Victor’s announcement to return to skating? What’s his training regimen, what’s his diet regimen, what’s his outlook on the rest of the season, does he feel like Yuri Plisetsky is the next rising star of skating, will Victor’s coaching style change now that he’s a competitor?

“You could ask Victor,” says Yuuri, throwing his fiancé under the bus, after which he runs into the relative safety of the Executive Lounge, immensely grateful that Victor is a snob who refuses to fly coach.

“They’re just excited,” soothes Minako. Easy for her to say, thinks Yuuri – together with Mari, they’ve commandeered a corner of the lounge and are in the process of sampling every drink and snack on offer. There’s a champagne flute dangling in Minako’s hand that Yuuri’s convinced has been refilled at least twice, given the brightness in her eyes. Their flight to Fukuoka won’t leave for another three hours; Yuuri hopes the lounge stocks enough champagne. “You won _silver_ , it’s easily the best showing you’ve ever had on the international circuit.”

“I know,” sighs Yuuri. He glances at the lounge’s entrance; they’re close enough that he can see a sliver of the action outside the protective force of airport employees overwrought with temporary power. Victor at least is more comfortable with the press than Yuuri is. It’s probably why they love him so much, and view Yuuri with such skepticism.

He can hear their questions from his hiding place.

“Victor! What prompted your return to skating? Do you feel you’ve brought Katsuki-san as far as he can go?”

“Of course not! Yuuri is an extremely talented skater, he is going to go on to win many more medals, most of which I’m sure will be gold. I’ve merely ensured that his feet are set on the right path for that outcome.”

“Oh, please,” groans Mari. “As if he picked you out of total obscurity.”

“I _was_ sort of stranded,” admits Yuuri.

“Victor! Will you train with Yakov Feltsman again?”

“Nothing’s certain. It’s true that Yakov and I have a very close relationship. He’s been my coach for so long I’m not sure if I could take instruction from anyone else.”

Yuuri snorts. “I’m not sure he took much instruction from Yakov, either,” he says to Mari.

“I can’t imagine Victor taking instruction from anyone,” Mari replies. “Which has very dull implications on your love life.”

“ _Mari!”_

“So there are no plans to return to Russia?”

Yuuri holds his breath.

_That… would make the most sense. He has to have thought about it._

“Of course not,” says Victor, his voice cheerful and unconcerned. “Yuuri’s home rink is here. Being in Japan has been very good for him, don’t you think?”

“For everything but your waistline,” says Mari. Yuuri groans and covers his face.

_How can he be so dismissive of returning to Russia? He can’t coach himself, can he?_

_Oh no. Can he?!?!_

“Victor – about the matching rings you and Katsuki-san wear—?”

Victor laughs and shakes his finger. “Ah, Matsuki-san, it’s like none of you read each other’s articles! We’ve already said they’re engagement rings.”

“It’s true? You’re getting married?”

“Of course!” Even with Victor’s back to Yuuri, he can hear how much Victor bursts with pride. His own heart hammers in his chest, and hearing Victor’s joy makes him smile in a ridiculous, giggly way.

“Have you set a date?”

Aaaaaand there goes the bubbly joy, whooshing right out from the top of his head. Yuuri groans and buries his head in his arms.

_Great, now they’re all going to end up laughing at me. Yuuri, the boy who can’t get married until there’s gold around his neck to match the gold around his finger._

“Yuuri and I are both focusing on the rest of the season for now – there’s plenty of time to discuss dates later. It certainly wouldn’t be until after the season has concluded – how can anyone plan a wedding when they’re concerned about landing a quad flip?”

Minako snorts. “As if Victor Nikiforov would let anyone plan his wedding for him.”

“Hear hear,” agreed Mari, and lifts her champagne glass to clink against Minako’s.

Yuuri isn’t sure whether to breathe a sigh of relief or hide under the couches.

_I landed the quad flip! Okay, I landed it once._

_At least he didn’t tell them getting married is contingent on me winning gold. Well... I heard it, even if they didn’t._

*

It’s still dark when Yuuri’s phone alarm goes off at 5am two days later. The screen illuminates the room in a pale blue light. Yuuri reaches over by rote and turns off the alarm.

But instead of lying awake for a moment to let his brain kick into gear before swinging his legs out of the bed and starting to dress in the clothes he laid out the night before, he rolls back over to where Victor is still asleep. Victor’s features are barely visible in the dark room, but Yuri can make out the basic shape of him, the curve of his shoulder and the feathery lightness of his hair where it sticks up from his head. The shadows of his nose and eyes and open mouth, and the soft glint of the ring on his finger.

Yuuri’s heart swells.

_It’ll be fine. Victor isn’t worried about returning to competition. I need to trust that he knows himself best._

“Vitya?”

Yesterday they were still working out the jet lag, riding high on Yuuri’s silver medal and their engagement, eating bowls of katsudon and splashing each other in the onsen. Now it’s time to come back to earth and concentrate on preparing not only for Japan’s National Championships, but also Victor’s return to the ice as a competitor.

“Vitya, time to wake up.”

The name is still a bit strange in Yuuri’s mouth – but the look on Victor’s face when he says it makes the oddness of the sounds worth it. As if Victor is only seeing him for the first time, and already knows how much he’ll like him. Victor’s eyes shine, and he holds his breath for the smallest moment, enough to give Yuuri a warm feeling. Yuuri still _thinks_ of Victor as _Victor_ – he imagines he always will – but the more he uses _Vitya_ , the more he likes it.

The more he wants to keep that look on Victor’s face for himself. It’s selfish, wanting those moments only for the two of them – but they’re too precious to squander on anyone else. _Victor_ is for everyone else. _Vitya_ is Yuuri’s alone.

Victor moves closer Yuuri – a sure sign of waking up, Yuuri thinks.

Right up until Victor sighs and nuzzles into Yuuri’s t-shirt, eyes still closed.

“ _Nyet_ ,” murmurs Victor.

Yuuri chuckles as he brushes the hair out of Victor’s eyes. “Okay, you can have five minutes while I get ready.”

Victor makes a sad noise as Yuuri gets out of the bed – but Yuuri has been daydreaming about this morning for months, if he’s going to be honest about it, and now that he’s starting to wake up, he’s eager to get moving. Victor’s still asleep when he returns from the bathroom, but Makkachin sits up on the end of the bed, wagging her tail.

“Not today, girl,” Yuuri tells her in Japanese as he gets dressed. “Only one Nikiforov diva at a time.”

Makkachin just grins and wags her tail. Clearly eight months of Japanese haven’t made much of an impact.

Yuuri sits on the bed to pull on his socks. “Victor!”

Victor doesn’t move. Yuuri rests his hand on Victor’s bare shoulder. His skin is cool, which isn’t surprising – the temperature is near freezing outside. Even in the warm bedroom, Yuuri has goosebumps on his bare arms. He reaches for where he left his shirt on the nearby chair while Victor finally shifts.

“There you are,” says Victor. Before Yuuri can really get a hold of his shirt, he’s pulled back onto the bed, a pair of strong arms wrapping around him to hold him close. “You’re _freezing_.”

“It’s cold outside!”

“Are you back from your run?”

“ _Back_? I haven’t even gone yet. You’re coming with me, remember?”

“I have a terrible memory,” says Victor, and kisses him. Victor’s mouth is a lot warmer than his arms. Yuuri relaxes into the warmth of him, the softness of the blankets between them, the comfortable curve of Victor’s body where it meets the mattress.

Makkachin lets out a huff and settles back on the bed at their feet.

Yuuri pulls back from the kiss and tugs his shirt over his head. “Oh no. You’re not getting out of this run _that_ easily.”

Victor sighs and flops back down on the pillow. “Can you blame me for trying?”

“Come on,” says Yuuri, moving to push himself back up. “Two kilometers there, two kilometers back.”

Victor’s eyes twinkle with mischief. He pulls Yuuri back down again – but this time, he presses kisses to Yuuri’s neck and shoulders, his hands working their way up under Yuuri’s shirt to nipples that are already stiff from the cold. “I know a better way to get your heart pumping.”

Yuuri groans – Victor’s arms might have been cold, but his hands are hot, if that’s even _possible_ – and the kisses on his neck and shoulders leave him shuddering. Victor works the shirt up, exposing Yuuri’s skin, and then with a devilish grin, moves down to close his mouth over one of Yuuri’s nipples.

The breath leaves Yuuri’s body as Victor’s tongue rolls around the small bud. He arches his back by instinct, moaning. Victor chuckles and moves to work on the other nipple, letting the flat of his thumb continue working circles in the damp skin.

“We’re going to be late,” says Yuuri, but it’s a fuzzy concern. He honestly can’t remember exactly why being late would be a terrible thing.

“Mmm. Just a run.”

“No, it’s…” Victor’s mouth moves further down, into the hollow of Yuuri’s stomach over his navel where the waistband of his running pants rest. Victor slowly begins to peel them down. “ _Vitya_.”

“Shh,” says Victor. The fabric is replaced by Victor’s mouth, his cheek brushing against Yuuri’s hardening cock. “Lift up, _lyubimiy_.”

Victor pulls Yuuri’s pants down to his knees before settling back down with his head on Yuuri’s stomach. His hand is warm on Yuuri’s skin, the fingers circling Yuuri’s cock, moving the foreskin up and down in a smooth, steady, slow rhythm that Yuuri thinks is going to drive him absolutely mad.

“Oh, God,” whimpers Yuuri, quickly grabbing Victor’s pillow to cover his face. It’s the only way he can do this, what with Mari in the next room and his parents down the hall.

Victor doesn’t waste time. His breath is hot on Yuuri’s skin. Without being able to see what Victor’s doing, Yuuri is lost in the sensations of Victor’s fingers and breath and lips and tongue, all in exactly the right places, all teasing about places they’re not. Victor’s fingers circle Yuuri’s cock, but it’s his mouth that Yuuri wants. Victor’s mouth rains kisses down on the sensitive, tender skin between his hip and his groin. It’s a sweet, aching pleasure – but Yuuri wants Victor’s thumbs pressing indentions into his body.

He's not going to last – not like this, not with the intense longing and growing frustration. Not when they’ve been moving at the speed of light the last 48 hours, without doing anything like _this_.

Not with Victor’s hand on his cock, rubbing sure strokes that somehow send waves of intense pleasure coursing through his body.

Victor murmurs into his skin – not English, which is fine because Yuuri’s not sure he’d be able to understand it right then anyway. It’s not like they need language for _this_ , or ever have.

He hurtles toward orgasm – much faster than usual, but he’s young and it’s been three days and 10,000 kilometers.

“ _Vitya_ ,” he manages to gasp, and that’s when Victor covers his cock with his mouth, swallows him down, covers Yuuri’s body with his own. Yuuri’s entire body tenses before its release – and then he’s coming, coming, and he feels Victor’s arms wrap around his waist, holding on and taking him in.

Yuuri’s a limp mess on the bed as Victor slowly licks his way back up to his chest. He pushes the pillow out of the way and kisses lightly up Yuuri’s neck and chin, his jawbone and cheeks, and the corners of Yuuri’s mouth while Yuuri gasps for breath.

“ _Dobroye utro_ ,” Victor says next to the skin above Yuuri’s ear.

“Uh-huh,” says Yuuri weakly, and wraps an arm around Victor’s shoulders. “Just… give me a minute.”

Victor sighs, mock sadness, and snuggles next to Yuuri. “The first time I did that, you forgot how to speak English. I’m losing my touch.”

Yuuri huffs a laugh. The bed is very, very comfortable, and Victor is very, very warm, and Makkachin is very, very heavy against Yuuri’s feet.

And it is still very, very dark outside. Most of Hasetsu is still asleep.

“I like this workout regimen,” says Victor happily.

“Mmm,” says Yuuri. He curls closer to press his nose against Victor’s hairline. Yuuri lets out a breath. “Definitely a good way to warm up for two kilometers there, two kilometers back.”

Victor goes very still. “Huh?”

“Come on,” says Yuuri – and this is why he likes blow jobs so much. Sex turns him into a lazy, cuddly kitten, and they both know it. But a blow job? Yuuri’s entire body hums with energy. He’s had a moment to be still, to let the endorphins work their way through his body, and now all he wants to do is _move_ , to find a way to release all the excitement and joy and love that Victor’s pulled to the surface.

Every day for the last eight months, at least once a day and sometimes more often than that depending on how hard Victor’s been pushing him on the ice, Yuuri’s been working on a particularly delightful revenge fantasy. It starts with two kilometers there and two kilometers back.

Yuuri cannot _wait_ to see how this plays out.

Victor looks wide-eyed and adorably confused, as if he’d forgotten that Yuuri can never stay still after a blow job. Yuuri grins and pokes him in the stomach. “Move it, _rōjin_. We’re going to be late.”

“Late?” echoes Victor, as Yuuri slips out from under him. It’s tricky to get off the bed when his pants are still wrapped around his knees, but Yuuri manages it, and then pulls the shirt back over his head. “What are we late _for_?”

Yuuri throws Victor’s running pants at him. “You’ll see.”

*

The first half kilometer is all downhill toward Hasetsu Bay, and then another kilometer along the boardwalk by the shore. It’s nearing six now and still dark, but the sky grows lighter every minute. Yuuri has done this run since he was twelve. Even in Detroit, he kept up running in the early morning, because the feel of the cold air against his face and in his lungs was the best sort of wake-up that he knew.

Well. That was _before_ he’d been introduced to Victor’s mouth.

Even so, it’s one of Yuuri’s favorite ways to stretch out in the morning. The seagulls are already screaming for their breakfasts. Yuuri can hear the rush of the waves as they hit the sand.

He can also hear Victor huffing and puffing next to him. Short breaths, in and out, the sound of Victor’s shoes against the pavement. Victor’s keeping up, which is good – not that Yuuri wouldn’t have expected him to do it, but he’s entirely aware of how Victor fares next to him.

It’s been well over a year since Yuuri ran with a human companion. He’s not entirely sure he remembers _how_. The only consolation is that Victor is surely as out of practice running with someone, since as far as Yuuri knows he hasn’t run more than the distance of the arrivals gate at Fukuoka Airport in the last six months. He doesn’t want to leave Victor behind – or worse, accidentally get Victor hurt through inattention.

The last half kilometer is only possible because of the early hour. Any later and it would be impossible to weave through the stalls and ship slips, right down the pier to the very end where the trawler is already doing a brisk trade.

“Katsuki-san! I have _fugu_ for you!”

The assembled group bursts into laughter. Yuuri pulls up to a stop with a grin. His breaths come hard, but it’s not more than he’d expect after a few days of inactivity. Victor is only half a step behind; he lets out a relieved gasp and bends over at the waist to catch his breath.

“No, thank you, Fukuda-san,” says Yuuri. He’s a bit winded, but not nearly as out of breath as Victor, and Yuuri can’t help the surge of pride. “Maybe next week.”

Yuuri pulls the pack off his back as he turns to Victor. “Can I have your pack?”

“Erk,” says Victor, more huff of breath and exhaustion than words. He straightens to pull the pack off his back. “Water first.”

“Sure. It’ll take Fukuda-san about ten minutes to fill them. We can stretch out by the railings.”

Yuuri hands the packs off to the fishmonger, and then leads Victor off to the side, where the railing is at just the right height for stretching tight leg muscles.

The sun is just now rising over Hasetsu Bay. Everything is pink and orange, reflecting off the slush on the ground and the slate-grey water behind the boats. Victor spreads his legs and bends over, letting his forearms rest against the ground, while Yuuri props one leg up on the railing and stretches his inner thigh.

“Two kilometers here, two kilometers back?” Victor still sounds winded, though it might be from being upsidedown.

“With about five kilo of seafood on the return trip,” confirms Yuuri.

“Uphill,” notes Victor glumly.

“Makes it more interesting,” says Yuuri with a grin. “What’d you think I did while you slept in every morning?”

Victor shakes his head. “I’m beginning to understand how you have such good stamina.”

Yuuri chuckles. “I’ve been doing this run since I was twelve. I always liked running by the beach. Dad would pass me every morning on his bicycle to pick up the day’s seafood. It seemed kind of silly, so I asked if I could get it instead. He and Fukuda-san have known each other for years; it’s not like Dad needs to order anything, he just gets the best catch. As long as I can get here before sunrise, anyway.”

“Ah,” says Victor, sheepish now. “I see. And if I’d made you late?”

“Puffer fish,” says Yuuri seriously.

Victor’s eyes light up. Yuuri recognizes the eager look already. It’s the look that precedes Victor doing anything crazy like shot contests with Celestino in Beijing, or pitting Yuuri against Yuri in a skate-off for his coaching services, or deciding to return to competitive skating in a week’s time.

“Is that the one that kills you if you don’t slice it correctly?”

“Yes, and _no_ ,” says Yuuri firmly. He spots Fukuda-san holding the packs aloft. “Ready to head back?”

“ _Yuuuri_ ,” says Victor mournfully. Yuuri ignores him and hands him a pack.

They take a different route back to the onsen, this time weaving through the town proper. It’s an easier climb than the hill where they began, so gradual that Yuuri generally doesn’t even notice the incline. The shops aren’t open, but people are already up and starting their days. Everyone they pass smiles to see them. Yuuri doesn’t think it’s his imagination that their smiles are just a bit more amused than usual. He’s not sure if it’s because they all know about the Grand Prix results, or if it’s because Victor is running beside him.

“ _Ohayōgozaimasu_!” they call out as he passes them.  

“ _Hai_!” is all he can manage to respond without expiring on the spot. He knows it’s rude, but he also knows he’s forgiven the moment he passes. Victor lags behind, mostly because he actually tries to respond in kind.

Yuuri thinks about waiting for him – but no, that might encourage Victor to spend more time talking and less time trying to keep up.

He _does_ pause when Victor accidentally gets roped into a conversation with Nishio-san, the little old lady who runs the tea shop near the train station. Nishio-san is bent over from age, can barely see, has no idea who Yuuri is beyond Hiroko’s son (and probably doesn’t care), and does not need an invitation to tell anyone listening about her bunions and how the only thing that helps is soaking them in a mix of green tea and salt water from the bay. Victor is endlessly kind – or maybe just happy for the excuse to stop running for a moment – and listens to Japanese he surely cannot understand, nodding his head and rocking from foot to foot.

Yuuri jogs in place while he waits and glances over the newspapers that are already laid out for commuters to pick up with barely a pause.

_Katsuki Yuuri wins silver; returns to Japan in triumph_

Yuuri doesn’t think winning _silver_ ought to be front-page news… but then, he hadn’t expected the sea of reporters to meet them at Narita Airport, either. Maybe it’s a slow news day.

_Victor Nikiforov to return to skating; still plans to coach Katsuki_

A _really_ slow news day. Then again, maybe it’s just Yuuri who reads that particular headline with an incredulous, disbelieving tone.

_Wedding Bells in Future?!?!_

Yuuri can’t help but be annoyed by all the exclamation points and question marks.

_Help Choose Their Outfits!_

Yuuri lets out a yelp.

“Wow,” says Victor from behind him, because of course Victor would be able to recognize his own name, even in katakana. “Are we on every single one of these? Let’s buy them!”

Yuuri lets out another yelp. “No! Definitely not!”

“I have to practice my Japanese somehow, Yuuri! You don’t want your husband to be illiterate, do you?”

“I’m okay with that!” Yuuri sets off jogging again, and lets out a sigh of relief when he hears Victor follow.

“It’s okay,” says Victor cheerfully. “Nishio-san gave me a whole pile of them free.”

Yuuri just groans.

“Katsuki-san! Nikiforov-san! _Ohayōgozaimasu_!”

“ _Hai_!” Yuuri calls back, and keeps running.

Mari is smoking on the front walk, huddled into her coat under the awning, when they run up. Yuuri’s pack is cold against his back. He takes it off with a sigh, stretching his shoulders back and forth to work out the kinks the extra weight caused. Victor groans with relief as he pulls his pack off.

“I think there’s a whale in there,” he says mournfully.

“We were hoping for tuna,” says Mari, taking the packs from them both. “You’re late.”

“Some of us are difficult to wake up in the mornings,” says Yuuri.

“Well, the vegetables are here, better bring it all in before it freezes,” says Mari, flicking her cigarette and then shoving it into the ashtray by the door.

“Vegetables?” echoes Victor.

“Weight-lifting,” Yuuri tells him. “Come on.”

“We’re not having breakfast?”

Yuuri just laughs.

*

It’s half an hour before they finally finish carrying the last crate of fruits and vegetables into the kitchen. That is, it’s half an hour before Yuuri enters the kitchen. Victor stumbles, but manages to catch himself and smile brightly, like a cat who absolutely intended to fall off that windowsill.

“Was that last step always so high?” he asks before setting his crate down on the table.

“Yes,” says Hiroko.

“Huh,” says Victor, and tries to make it look like he’s not collapsing on his customary breakfast chair.

“Good morning, Mom,” says Yuuri, setting his crate down on the counter. He kisses his mother’s cheek while she dishes out bowls of rice. “Miso for me.”

“Of course,” says Hiroko. Her eyes sparkle as she spoons the natto over the rice. “This is for Vicchan. I fed Makkachin already.”

“Oh!” Victor looks sheepish. “ _Arigatō_. We should have brought her with us this morning. I still need to take her on a walk.”

“It’s all right!” says Hiroko, with her customary laugh, her eyes crinkling up. “I’ll take her when I’m done with breakfast. I need the exercise if I’m going to lose as much weight as Yuuri.”

She pokes at Yuuri’s stomach, where his shirt has ridden up to expose some of the skin on his belly. There’s still a thin layer of fat that he can’t seem to shed. Yuuri chokes on the water he’s drinking, laughing despite his obvious embarrassment. “Mom! Stop, that tickles!”

Hiroko laughs as she slides the fried egg over the rice and natto. She sets the bowl in front of Victor with a flourish. Victor immediately perks up, chopsticks already in hand – only to stop before the chopsticks even touch the food.

“Oh,” he says, in the exact tone of voice of someone who has just been informed that their favorite breakfast meal has more calories than an entire McDonald’s restaurant. “Wow. My favorite.”

“Vicchan? Is something wrong?” asks Hiroko. “I cooked the egg just as you like it.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine!” Victor assures Hiroko, waving his hands at her in a frantic attempt to pretend that everything’s great. Yuuri can hear how the cheerfulness is just a bit forced. “Delicious! _Vkusno_!”

“ _Oh_ ,” realizes Hiroko. “You’re training now! I should have given you something lighter.”

“It’s my first day,” says Victor. “I need to keep up my strength.”

“I’ll just take it and give you some miso instead.” Hiroko reaches for the bowl – but Victor turns territorial as he clutches the bowl to his chest.

“No! It’s mine! I’ll eat it!” he insists, somewhat more forcefully than even he probably expected, given the way his eyes suddenly go wide with possessiveness while Hiroko stares at him, open-mouthed.

Yuuri can’t even drink his water anymore – for a moment, the three of them marvel over the sudden tussle over a breakfast bowl, before Hiroko drops her hand with a crinkly-eyed smile and a laugh that is more _at_ Victor than _with_ him.

“Well, if you’re sure, dear,” she says.

“I’ll have miso tomorrow,” says Victor, still cradling his breakfast.

“You hate miso,” says Yuuri, sitting next to him.

“I hate miso,” agrees Victor, almost forlorn as he gazes at his delicious, more than likely nutritionally terrible, breakfast.

“It’s probably not _that_ bad for you. It’s at least filling. You know I’m always hungry by ten.”

“Yeah,” says Victor longingly.

Yuuri almost feels sorry for him.

 _Almost_.

“Cheer up,” he says brightly, remembering far too many meals with Victor proclaiming _vkusno_ while Yuuri munched on plain chicken breast. “You can have it for breakfast after you win.”

Hiroko claps her hands, clearly approving of the plan, while Victor glares at Yuuri from over the edge of the bowl.

Victor spends twice as long as usual to savor every single bite.

*

They rinse off in the onsen before dressing in clothes better suited to the temperature in the ice rink. It’s a quick bike ride to the Ice Castle, with Makkachin following. Takeshi is already unlocking the doors as they park their bikes at the base of the steps.

“There you are,” he calls down to them. “I like this new schedule. I get to sleep in.”

“That makes one of us,” says Victor cheerfully.

“Don’t you always sleep in?” asks Yuuri, confused. Takeshi is always at the rink before they are – but Yuuri didn’t think it was _that_ much earlier.

Takeshi laughs. “Are you kidding? _This_ guy was always here at the crack of dawn to get on the ice, since you’re hogging it the rest of the time.” He jerks his thumb at Victor, who just smiles benignly.

“You never said!” Yuuri exclaims to Victor. “You let me think you were sleeping in every morning.”

Victor shrugs. “Hardly two kilometers there, two kilometers back. Did you think I haven’t been skating for months?”

“Yes!”

Takeshi chuckles. “I have paperwork to do, but the ice is ready for you. Give a shout if you need anything.”

“Maybe after,” says Victor. “We’ll both need to stretch out.”

Which is true, realizes Yuuri. Usually it’s just the two of them, Victor acting as ballast for Yuuri to get into the deeper stretches. Of course Takeshi can help – he's a trained physiotherapist, he helped Yuuri during Hot Springs on Ice while Victor was helping Yurio. He knows what he’d be doing.

The shift is still disconcerting. Yuuri’s grown accustomed to it being just he and Victor working together – but of course that won’t be true any longer. Private morning practice aside, Victor will need more help to get back to competitive shape than what Yuuri alone can offer.

“Sure, I can help you stretch,” says Takeshi, completely ignorant of Yuuri’s internal crisis. “Have fun.”

Since they’re still warm from the bike ride, it doesn’t take long to finish their off-ice stretches before they lace up their skates. Victor’s on the ice first. His starting laps are lazy before he picks up speed, reversing back and forth, as if he’s trying to find his sea legs after a long time on land. _Ice legs_ , Yuuri thinks, and pauses as he laces up his skates, watching Victor.

Victor looks natural on the ice. As if he’s been skating every single day for the last six months. Which Yuuri now knows he _has_ – just not at competition level.

 _He’s been planning to go back to competition all along,_ thinks Yuuri. _He never really wanted to let it go. He even said himself – coaching me was just a break. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s been practicing by himself._

The things Victor’s doing on the ice now aren’t so difficult. Yuuri wonders why it feels like Victor’s delaying the inevitable jumps.

_What’s he waiting for? Is it me?_

“Got to be strange, huh?” says Takeshi next to him. “Him coaching you _and_ competing? How’s that gonna work?”

Yuuri lets out a near hysterical laugh. “I’m supposed to know?”

“Guess not,” says Takeshi. “Hey. Look. I wanted to apologize.”

Yuuri turns to look at him. “For what?”

Takeshi rubs the back of his neck. He’s not looking at Yuuri at all – or at Victor. Or at anything. “For not believing that you could be better than Victor.”

“But I’m not—”

“You beat his high score in the free skate, Yuuri,” Takeski interrupts him. “When Victor showed up, you said you wanted to be better than him – and now you are. I should have supported you more. I should have believed in you.”

Yuuri looks back out to Victor, who is completely focused on his skating, concentration etched into his face. “I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t even believe I could do it.”

“Yuuko did.”

Yuuri looks sharply back at Takeshi.

“Don’t tell me you’re _surprised_ ,” snorts Takeshi. “She’s been your number one fan since the day you stepped onto the ice.”

“I _fell_ the first time I stepped on the ice.”

“Yeah, and she’s the one who picked you up.”

“You’re the one who knocked me over!”

“Yeah,” says Takeshi. He sounds nostalgic, as if it’s a _good_ memory.

Well. Maybe it is, for him.

Takeshi snaps out of reminiscing and punches Yuuri lightly on the shoulder. “Just because I support you taking on Nikiforov on the ice, doesn’t mean I can’t also keep you in your place, Katsuki.”

“Thanks?” says Yuuri wryly.

“Anytime,” says Takeshi in the manner of someone who’s just granted a favor he was only too happy to give.

“Yuu-ri!” calls Victor from the ice. “Only one week to Nationals, don’t waste it on the bench!”

“That’s my cue,” says Yuuri as he stands up.

“Back to work for both of us,” says Takeshi. “Hey – is Victor going to start training soon?”

Yuuri looks out to where Victor is skating figures in the middle of the ice. “I think that’s what he’s doing now.”

“Be good to see him jump a couple of quads,” says Takeshi.

Yuuri frowns. “All those mornings practicing, and he never did any quads?”

“Can't remember the last time, no. It's been spins and step sequences, mostly.”

“Huh,” says Yuuri, turning back to look at Victor on the ice.

“Well, if anyone can make a comeback without a coach, it’s Victor Nikiforov,” says Takeshi, slapping his knees as he rises to his feet. “Come find me when you’re ready for me to prod you guys into pulps.”

“Sure,” says Yuuri, eyes still on Victor.

 _When was the last time Victor did a quad?_ Yuuri wonders, and then steps out onto the ice.

*

It’s trite to say that stepping onto the ice is like coming home, because of course it isn’t. Maybe Victor hasn’t skated every day at competition level in the last six months – but he _has_ skated, even if it’s just to keep up with Yuuri as a coach, or practice a lift as a partner, or work out a problem with the step sequence as a choreographer.

The only thing he hasn’t done with Yuuri is to skate with him as a rinkmate. They had laughed about side-by-side jumps for their pair skate, but it was a lot harder to synchronize than they’d anticipated. Even the camels had been tricky at first.

It’s a relief when Yuuri hangs back to talk to Takeshi. Victor’s so used to skating on his own now, he’s not entirely sure what he’ll do when Yuuri comes out to join him. Will he automatically slide back into coach-mode? Start putting Yuuri through his paces, critiquing and assessing and coming up with new ways to approach Yuuri’s fragile ego that might get the result he wants?

Or will he turn inward, focus so solely on what _he_ needs to do that he ends up forgetting about Yuuri entirely to leave him floundering on the ice?

Victor knows he needs to find the happy medium. He’s not entirely sure how to do that, and there isn’t really anyone he can ask. After all, no one’s tried to both coach and compete at the same time before. He’s either making history by trying – or he’s making the biggest mistake of his life.

The ice is smooth under his skates. Victor tries a bracket turn, a 3-turn, a lazy change-foot spin. He starts a figure - just a one-foot eight, nothing overly complex. It's like sliding back into his teen-aged years. He feels good. His muscles are loose from the early morning run. Maybe he’s a little tired from the additional exertion, and he feels a little heavier on the ice than he’d like, but otherwise he’s ready to start.

He feels good. He’s not going to think about it beyond that.

He wants to begin. There’s music on the tip of his thoughts, even if he can’t quite access it yet. His short program, no doubt. Or maybe the free skate, he hasn’t decided. He’ll have to choreograph them both and soon, if he’s going to learn them for the Europeans at the end of January.

“Yuu-ri!” he sings out. It doesn’t feel right to do a jump until Yuuri’s there on the ice with him, and Victor’s ready to jump. He can feel his blood pumping with excitement. It’s been a long time since he’s felt the exhilaration that comes with landing a perfect jump, the rush of air as it pushes out of his lungs on landing. He can’t wait to feel it again.

With the one-foot eight done, Victor glides into a clear patch of ice and starts again. He'd rather feel the wind in his hair, but he doesn't want to risk jumping before Yuuri's there. Instead, he marks the previously pristine ice with additional lines and curves, and intricate over-sized snowflake.

“Oh,” says Yuuri, skating up to him. “I didn’t know you knew how to do figures.”

“I was surprised to see you doing them, too,” says Victor, amused. “They haven’t been required since before you were born.”

“Or before you started skating,” counters Yuuri. He leans over for a closer look at the intricate pattern Victor’s marked on the ice. “Minako-sensei had me learn them my last year of Novices. She said they’d help me with the step sequences.”

“No wonder your step sequences are so advanced,” says Victor as he glides off the pattern. It’ll be destroyed before they’re done practicing, since they won’t be able to avoid it, but he’s not going to wreck the pattern on purpose. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh-oh.” Yuuri looks amused.

Victor ignores the light-hearted jab. “I need new programs for my return to the ice.”

Yuuri almost looks relieved. “Oh, thank goodness. I had this horrible thought you’d want to skate to Eros and try to share the costume.”

Victor laughs. “No. Eros was always for you, even if I didn’t realize it. Agape is tempting, if only for the look on Yurio’s face.”

Yuuri shudders. “Please don’t. He’d kill you.”

 _Victor Nikiforov is dead_.

Victor hopes his grin doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “There are so many ways I could go with my theme for the rest of the season. A phoenix rising from the ashes – the rebirth of imagination – the yin of _pragma_ to your yang of _eros_ ….”

“Uh-huh,” says Yuuri, skepticism personified.

“Yuuri, you’re not taking this seriously,” says Victor sternly.

“I am! Just… are we going to stand here and talk about your program for the next hour?”

So much for rinkmates discussing things like civilized people.

“Five laps, go,” says Victor, putting on his coach-voice as he waves Yuuri off. Yuuri looks almost relieved before he starts skating laps around the perimeter of the rink.  Victor skates in a smaller circle nearby and raises his voice so that Yuuri can still hear him. “I need something new, something that will surprise everyone. Do you have any ideas?”

“Everyone’s going to expect you to skate about love,” says Yuuri. “So maybe pragma isn’t a bad idea.”

“Which is exactly why I shouldn’t.” Victor taps his finger against his lips. He glides across the ice, closer to where Yuuri is skating. “It’s a delicate balance, skating what I would like to skate, versus what everyone will expect me to skate – and what I _should_ skate, to keep them surprised and interested.”

Yuuri’s voice carries easily across the ice – he’s practicing his turns now, flipping back and forth between forwards and backwards. Victor is tempted to join him. “You don’t think they’d be interested in your side of the story? I mean – everyone’s heard mine by now.”

“True,” acknowledges Victor. “And no. Mine is predictable.”

Yuuri laughs. “ _I_ didn’t predict it.”

“Only because you were not in possession of the relevant memories,” Victor points out.

“Don’t remind me,” groans Yuuri. “I think if I _did_ remember Sochi, you’d never see me in public again.”

“I need the music, or at least an idea of the music, before I begin choreography. I want to listen to your iPod.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t borrowed it already,” says Yuuri, which is as good as a “yes” to Victor. He skates over to the side where Yuuri’s left his things. “Hey! You’re not allowed to judge me by what’s on my _personal playlist_!”

“Quad flips, Yuuri!” Victor calls back while he sets up the music.

“Great, you can demonstrate!” Yuuri calls back, clearly freaked out enough to be cheeky.

Victor’s played with Yuuri’s iPod before, and he knows exactly what wants to play: the playlist called “Programs.” It’s not a long playlist and most of the music is on the older side, which makes Victor think that Yuuri hasn’t added to it in some time, possibly since he left Detroit. Considering what Celestino had told Victor about Yuuri only making one feeble attempt to pick his music, it makes sense that Yuuri wouldn’t put much effort into adding to the list.

Particularly given that until a few days ago, he’d been planning to retire anyway. Victor’s not going to think about that. It makes his stomach hurt.

The speakers in the rink are still set at too-loud open-skate levels. Victor adjusts the volume until the soft piano music is in the background. The music is similar to Yuuri’s free skate program, but it doesn’t have the same meaning for Victor. Pretty, but he can’t imagine skating to it for even half a season.

He turns in time to see Yuuri miss his landing and go skidding across the ice on his ass.

“Again!” he calls out. Yuuri grits his teeth and gets up to his feet.

Yuuri misses the next attempt, under-rotates on the third attempt, _over-_ rotates on the fourth attempt, and then manages to land the fifth, though his hand comes perilously close to touching the ice. Victor flipping from song to song over the loudspeakers probably isn’t helping Yuuri’s concentration much.

“Better,” says Victor. His feet are itching now – watching Yuuri jump in practice has always produced a strange feeling in his chest, a little like his heart is racing, like if he takes a step forward, he’ll be able to repeat the same jump flawlessly, just with a single thought.

He wants to find out now if he _can_.

“One out of five,” says Yuuri with a frown. “And the one wasn’t even that good.”

“You didn’t touch the ice, so better than during Eros last week,” says Victor. He catches Yuuri’s wince; Yuuri will undoubtedly be reliving that moment in his head, but it’s Victor’s job to pull him out of it. “I want you to watch the way I’m holding my torso, just before I kick off. I think you are leaning just too slightly to the right, and that’s affecting your center of balance.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri. The distraction works. Victor can tell Yuuri’s not thinking about his performance at the GPF anymore – and with the immediate goal of landing a quad flip ahead of him, Victor’s not working himself into a self-defeating cycle of doubt.

 _Good. Maybe this will be work for both of us_ , thinks Victor.

“Don’t take your eyes off me!” Victor tells him. His skates fly across the ice as his muscles fall into a familiar rhythm.

_Here we go._

It’s muscle memory that drives Victor around the ice. He knows how this jump works – once, he was the only person in the world who could land it in competition.

Not anymore. The only other person is on the side, watching.

Victor’s heart beats a little faster. It’s still his signature jump. It’s still _his_. This is easy. This is simple. This is what he was born to do, and the last six months don’t matter, because now he’s turned, and now his toe pick hits the ice, and now he’s lifting up—

He doesn’t spin.

He barely hops.

He lands on the ice. All he can see is the wide-eyed look on Yuuri’s face, and somewhere behind Yuuri, Takeshi with his mouth dropped open.

_I… popped it._

_Okay._

Victor takes a breath, turns to face forward, and skates to the other side of the ice, building up momentum again.

It happens. It’s practice. When did he last do a jump, anyway? Those practices for the pair skate, yeah, but those were doubles. Start easy, start small, they’d decided. They laughed even as they couldn’t coordinate with each other, and finally gave up trying to synchronize their jumps at all.

Doubles, in November. He must have done triples at some point – he’s sure of it.

He can’t remember the last time he attempted a quad of any type.

Okay. He’ll work up to it.

A double loop, landed cleanly, arms outstretched. There’s a part of Victor’s heart that breathes a sigh of relief, and then he’s annoyed. Of _course_ he can land a double. He’s _Victor Nikiforov_.

A triple toe loop next. He knows the minute he’s launched himself into the air that it’s a clean entry. He’s going to get every single rotation in – but there’s a wobble on his landing, and he feels the lactic acid beginning to burn in his calves.

 _All that running catching up with me_ , he thinks.

He should stop, get some water. But the ice is clear and Yuuri’s eyes are still fixed on him. If Victor stops for a single second, he might not get the speed he’s got now.

It happens so fast, Victor isn’t even aware that he’s launched himself into a triple flip until he’s spinning in the air.

His palms slap against the ice when he falls. He slides a little bit, coming to a stop just before the boards, and he can feel accumulated shaved ice coating his fingers as his hands sting.

 _Gloves_.

The rink is silent, except for the piano in the background.

“I need gloves,” he says, because anything else is completely unthinkable.

“I’ve got extras,” says Yuuri quickly. Victor gets to his feet.

“No, they’ll be too small.” How is he this calm?

“I’ll get you a pair,” says Yuuko. Victor didn’t even realize she’d come in, but now he hears the double doors to the lobby slam closed as she runs out. He’s glad that she’s gone again, because the idea of her watching with wide, sympathetic eyes is a lot more than he thinks he can take.

Victor shakes the ice off his hands, rubs them mostly dry on his pants. Before they’re even dry, Yuuri skates over with the extra pair of gloves.

“Brand-new,” he says, all hesitant mock cheer. He smiles like he’s trying to mean it. “They should fit.”

Victor doesn’t want to look at him. He focuses on the black gloves, which don’t go over his damp skin very easily.

Yuuri clears his throat.

“Vitya—” he begins.

 _Vitya_. The name Yuuri only uses when it’s the two of them, when they’re just Vitya and Yuuri, and nothing else matters.

_No. I can’t be Vitya right now. I’m Victor Nikiforov. I’ve landed more quads in competition than any other skater out there. I don’t need comforting, I need practice._

“Work on your triple Lutz triple toe combination,” says Victor quickly. He still can’t look at Yuuri, but he can feel Yuuri’s eyes on him all the same.

He doesn’t want anyone watching this.

Not even Yuuri.

“Pay attention to your free leg and your speed on the initial entry,” Victor continues. “Yuuko’s here – see if she or Takeshi have time to record you, and then watch after two or three jumps. Make the necessary corrections, and do the jumps again. Keep count – no more than thirty jumps today.”

Yuuri stiffens. “ _Hai_.”

The return to Japanese is… startling. They’ve only ever conversed in English. When Yuuri turns away, _finally_ taking his eyes off Victor… it’s not as much a relief as he would have thought.

The next half hour, they spend on opposite sides of the ice, practicing their jumps alone. But Victor can’t keep his eyes off Yuuri for very long – every time he hears Yuuri’s skates hit the ice, his gaze snaps right back to where Yuuri is. It’s distracting and disruptive and Victor almost wants to scream in frustration, because of all the things he loves most about coaching Yuuri, _watching_ him has always been at the top of the list.

And now he can’t.

 _You don’t even understand how difficult this is going to be,_ Yakov had shouted at him at the banquet. _You think everything will be easy because it has always been easy._

 _I’ve never thought that_ , Victor thinks, but he can feel exhaustion start to creep in with the sweat that pours down his face. Tendrils of hair cling to his skin, and his shirt already hangs damply against him.

He’d thought Yakov was talking about the rigors of practice, the pressure of competition. The physical toll on his ever-aging body. The physicality of skating is at least familiar, even if he’d forgotten the details of it.

He hadn’t realized Yakov was talking about the way he feels torn in two, wanting to be with Yuuri on the other side of the ice, and wanting to be _here_ , making his own beautiful music.

Yuuri’s not watching him, but he can see Yuuko glance over from time to time.

 _Why now? What is so important about coming back to competition now?_ Yakov had screamed. _Why do you always have to pick the most difficult way to do things?_

Every ache in every bone reminds Victor of the reason.

_I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ve been skating so long I don’t remember learning how. I’m the oldest person in the Senior Circuit still competing in a meaningful way._

_Yuuri was willing to give up his career just to let me come back to the ice. I can’t let him down by giving up._

_I can’t wait an extra six months to return, either, and the skating I’m doing now only proves it. I don’t know how much longer my body will be able to compete on this level before it breaks down entirely. Every minute I’m not skating, I’m making it harder to return. If I want to skate against Yuuri – if I want to stand on the podium with him in the only way we’re able – it’s not now or later. It has to be now. _

_I’ve learned the hard way – there’s no guarantee of later._

“Quarter to!” calls Takeshi – _finally,_ _finally_ , thinks Victor – and that’s it, their practice time is over. Takeshi needs to clean the rink before Yuuko’s group lessons begin. Half a dozen tiny tots on wobbly legs, learning to skate for the first time. Victor watched them, once or twice; he’d even gone out to pick up a few sobbing babies from the ice, and hold their hands as they glided around, while Yuuri let Takeshi push and pull his muscles back into a soothing sort of relaxation.

Not today. Not ever again – well, not for a long time yet.

He has time for one more jump.

Victor pushes all the thoughts of out his head as he picks up speed. He can hear the _swish_ of his blades, feel the rush of wind on his skin, cold where he’s sweat through his shirt. His hair’s probably dripping. He’ll need a shower – or a _bath_ , no wonder Yuuri is silent for the first ten minutes or so in the onsen. Just thinking about the soothing hot water makes Victor want to sigh…

No. He needs his mind to be a blissful blank.

Victor breathes, feels the rush of the wind, the ice beneath his feet.

_This is where I belong._

He jumps.

A triple Lutz.

He lands it. He touches, glides his fingers on the ice for far too long. When he pulls himself back upright, he’s well too aware of how every single muscle _burns_.

But he lands it.

It’s not as much a relief as it should be – but something in Victor is still elated, even if the rest of him wants to lay down on the ice and die on the spot.

He’s going to hold onto that elation. He _has_ to.

Yuuri is drinking from his water bottle when Victor glides up to the boards. Yuuko hands him a second bottle; Victor drinks a quarter of it in half a gulp.

“You did really well,” she says, a bit timid. Victor nods sharply. He doesn’t agree, and he knows they know it. There isn’t any reason to say it.

Yuuri seems hesitant to step off the ice first. “I think I got what you were saying,” he says, just as cautious as Yuuko. Everyone being careful around him is almost as aggravating as having not landed a single quad. “About my core? The video is on my phone, if you want—?”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Victor, grateful to have _something_ that isn’t his performance to focus on. They both move for the door at the same time, running into each other. Victor takes Yuuri by the arm to keep from falling over.

He doesn’t know if Yuuri misinterprets the hold or has just been waiting for the opportunity, but Yuuri pulls him into a hug.

It’s _such_ a relief. Victor sinks into Yuuri’s arms. Yuuri is a warm, sweaty, wonderful mess pressed up against him, and for a moment, Victor’s sorry he shoved him away earlier.

He still steps away a little now, just to get a look at him. There’s a quiet smile on Yuuri’s face – relief, too, thinks Victor, and it only makes him feel guiltier than he already does. Yuuri’s bangs are pushed up so that his hair nearly resembles his competition style. Only sweat is keeping it from falling into his eyes. Victor can see where Yuuri’s fingers swept through the dark locks. He reaches up with his free hand to brush the hair back again, forgetting about the gloves until the last moment. He grunts in frustration, pulls them off by the fingers with his teeth.

Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat as his lips part. His eyes are shining, and Victor’s suddenly much more conscious of the way they’re so close to each other as Yuuri leans into him.

 _Oh. That’s interesting_ _. Didn’t expect Yuuri to like that so much…_

Yuuri’s hair is silky when it’s damp with sweat. Victor can feel the heat radiating from his scalp. He cups the back of Yuuri’s head in his hand and closes his eyes as he breathes in the scent of their sweat.

There’s a bang from the other side of the rink – Takeshi opening the gates for the Zamboni.

“Um… we should get off the ice,” says Yuuri, a little bit dazed.

“Yes,” says Victor. He lets Yuuri exit first. “I want to see this video.”

Victor studies the video while Yuuri removes his skates. There’s some improvement – not a lot, but enough to make a difference already. The resulting warmth in Victor’s chest is enough that he can almost ignore the exhaustion in his muscles.

“The last jumps are better,” he says.

“Try not to sound so surprised,” laughs Yuuri, bent over to unlace his skates.

“Look at this,” says Victor, and he leans over to show Yuuri the screen. “Do you see this, where you’re holding your arm? Your elbow needs to be higher, this looks sloppy. Hold it correctly, and you’ll have an easier time getting your rotations in, which will also make it easier for you to get more height.”

Yuuri doesn’t answer, and Victor pulls the phone back to play the video again. The jump is beautiful… but it could be better, if only he could put his finger on the problem….

“I could record you,” says Yuuri.

Victor’s thumb hits the screen, pausing the video.

It’s not an unreasonable offer. It’s probably exactly what Victor needs, really – some way to see what he’s doing wrong, because he obviously can’t correct the faults himself. He needs outside eyes.

“I mean – you need someone to record you sometimes,” says Yuuri quickly. “And I get that you don’t want Yuuko or Takeshi watching—”

“I don’t mind them watching,” says Victor stiffly. He puts the phone down on the bench between them, and leans over to unlace his skates. He doesn’t mind them. The triplets are another story – as grateful as he is for their original indiscretion, he doesn’t trust them anywhere near his practice when they’ve got video capability.

The last thing he needs is a video of Victor Nikiforov falling on a triple toe loop surfacing online.

“Okay,” says Yuuri, clearly not believing him. “Just… I don’t mind. I’d like to help.”

The offer of assistance _grates_. Victor’s not entirely sure why.

“You should work on your own programs,” says Victor. “You have a lot of ground to cover if you want to win gold at Worlds.”

Yuuri sucks in a breath. His entire body goes still in the same amount of time it takes for Victor to blink, right before he’s back into smooth motion again as he pulls off his skates. Victor can feel Yuuri drawing in on himself, as if he’s noticeably shrinking. “Yeah, okay.”

Victor yanks at his laces and hisses in pain. When he jerks his hand up, he sees the reddened skin on his forefinger where the rough fabric has rubbed against a cut from his earlier fall on the ice.

“Oh,” says Yuuri.

Victor closes his hand, pulling it toward his chest. He breathes, bending his head over the throbbing finger.

There’s a touch on his arm.

“Let me see,” says Yuuri softly. Slowly, Victor uncurls himself and holds out his hand.

Yuuri’s fingers are gentle. “Not so bad. I’ve had way worse. The first time I tried a quad Sal, I cut my hand up so badly I had to skate with one of those fat gauze bandages for a few days.”

“Yeah?”

“Messed up my spins until I could take it off.”

Yuuri kisses Victor’s finger lightly, before letting his fingers curl back up again. His smile is soft, kind – loving. Victor wonders why he was so determined not to let himself have it before.

Victor leans forward until their foreheads knock together. He closes his eyes. “He said it would be impossible.”

“Who?”

“Yakov. To come back. As if I’d been in an accident and all my muscles had wasted away.”

“Not that bad,” says Yuuri. “You’ve been skating nearly every day. You just haven’t done some of the harder jumps, that’s all.”

“I haven’t done a quad since August.”

“Oh.”

Yuuri falls silent. Victor can feel him thinking.

The Zamboni passes by them on the ice, a dull roar that momentarily eclipses the music playing in the rink.

Yuuri is still thinking. Victor can’t stand not knowing what it is.

“Yuuri—”

“You need Yakov.”

Victor pulls away and ignores the momentary flash of hurt on Yuuri’s face. “What? No.”

“Well, I can’t coach you. You won’t even let me _watch_ you.”

“I don’t need a coach right now,” says Victor. “I just need to get my endurance up again.”

“And then what, Victor? When you’re stronger, and you’re landing your jumps? I don’t know enough to coach you! You need Yakov.”

“Well, he’s not going to come to Hasetsu,” snaps Victor, irritable. He leans over and pulls off his skates, too angry to do it without also wrenching his ankles in the process. “He’s got Georgi and Mila and Yurio to think about.”

“So you go to St Petersburg,” says Yuuri, calmly and rationally and with his hands resting on his thighs. As if this is the most logical solution and Victor’s an idiot not to see it. As if he has _no fucking interest_ in keeping Victor close.

The Zamboni passes again. Victor wants to throw his skates at it.

It’s happening again.

 _After the Grand Prix Final, let’s end this_.

_I’m going to retire. Thank you for being my coach._

Victor’s heart might as well have stopped in his chest. In the hotel room in Barcelona, he was angry.

He’s not angry now. He’s _not._ He’s hurt. Everything hurts. From his skin to his bones to the blood rushing through his veins.

“I’m your coach, Yuuri,” he says stiffly. “I’m not leaving you right before your Nationals. If you think I would put my own career over yours—”

_Just like you tried to do. I wouldn’t let you do it then, I’m not going to let you do it now._

Yuuri’s hands are on Victor’s clenched fists before he even realizes that he’s clenched them. Yuuri’s knuckles are white – but he’s not shaking. He’s not hesitant.

Whatever he’s about to say, Victor knows with absolute certainty that Yuuri means every single word.

“You cannot train in Hasetsu. I cannot train without you. We can’t stay here any longer, Victor.”

Victor turns and looks at Yuuri. His face is set – determined and sure.

“Vitya,” says Yuuri.

Victor knows what’s coming. He can hear it in Yuuri’s voice. He looks up to watch him say it, because it’s the only way he’s going to believe that Yuuri says it at all.

Yuuri’s face is resolute, unchanging, supportive.

_Perfect._

“I’ll come with you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Nyet (Russian) – No  
> Lyubimiy (Russian) – My beloved  
> Dobroye utro (Russian) – Good morning  
> Rōjin (Japanese) – Old man  
> Fugu (Japanese) – pufferfish  
> Da (Russian) – Yes  
> Ohayōgozaimasu (Japanese) – Good morning (formal version)  
> Hai (Japanese) – Yes  
> Arigatō (Japanese) – Thank you  
> Vkusno (Russian) – Delicious


	3. We're Moving Where?!?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor's ecstatic with Yuuri's offer; Yuuri's just determined not to panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter used to be much longer, and I thought about splitting it in two. And then I ended up adding about 3,000 extra words, so now it is definitely two. Yay words. The only reason betas tokyopt and auntiesuze did not murder me in my sleep is because there is an ocean separating us. Yay ocean. Special thanks to rogovich for correcting my Russian language and cultural misconceptions. Yay Russian language corrections.

Yuuri’s words echo in Victor’s mind on repeat.

_You can’t train in Hasetsu. I can’t train without you. We can’t stay here._

_I’ll come with you to St Petersburg._

“Yuuri—” he breathes, reaching for Yuuri’s hands and holding them tightly. Any moment now, Yuuri might change his mind.

_I never thought you’d be willing to go. I was never going to ask that of you. But offering of your own volition – this is the best surprise you could ever give me._

_Don’t change your mind, solnyshko._

“It’s the only solution that makes sense,” insists Yuuri. The certainty in Yuuri’s voice is the most reassuring thing Victor has ever heard, even if the bravery is brittle. “You need Yakov. You _want_ Yakov, I know you do. You have to go back to St Petersburg to train, it’s the only place you can go. Me, I can go anywhere, as long as I’m with you.”

The thing is that Victor can already see them both in Russia. The images play like a ridiculous training montage from a Hollywood movie: Victor showing Yuuri his apartment in Saint Petersburg, shopping for groceries at the local markets, touring the Hermitage and admiring the gardens. Showing him the river as the seagulls shriek overhead. The rink where he learned how to fly, and every single person there watching Yuuri skate with admiration and respect.

The two of them sinking into the soft mattress on Victor’s bed at the end of the day, tired and happy and together.

It’s not that Victor wouldn’t be happy in Japan with Yuuri – he would, of course he would.

But _home_ ….

“You would really leave Japan for me?”

“Victor. _Vitya_ ,” says Yuuri, soft. “Of course I would. You came here for me. And it’s not like I haven’t gone away to train before – I was in Detroit for five years, remember. I’ve spent more time outside of my own country than you have.”

“That’s different – you were in school then. You might have left Japan anyway.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “It’s not _that_ different. I didn’t know anyone in Detroit when I went there – but in Saint Petersburg, I’ll have you and Yurio and – well, Yakov, maybe. Even if he hates me for stealing you, maybe he’d forgive me if I return you.”

“Return _with_ me,” breathes Victor. He’s already vibrating with anticipation.

_I’ll need to call Yakov, he’ll have to smooth things over with the Federation, no doubt, to give Yuuri access to the skating facilities. I’ll need to let Marina Vasilievna know, so she can air out the apartment and purchase food._

_I should call Sergei._

_No, not until it’s settled. Sergei doesn’t need to know yet._

“The only thing I need to train is you,” Yuuri says. Victor pulls himself out of his plans.

“Not the only thing, _solnyshko_ ,” he says, picking up his skates. “But it’s a start.”

*

They walk their bicycles back to the onsen, because talking is too difficult when riding and there is _so_ much to discuss.

Also, walking makes it much easier for Victor to interrupt other people to ask what they’re listening to on their iPods.

He knows it’s acutely embarrassing for Yuuri – one does not approach random strangers and ask to listen to their iPods, after all – but Victor is so friendly and cheerful and obviously _not Japanese_ that everyone he asks lets him get away with it. He always listens politely for a moment, holding the earbuds just close enough to his ear to hear the music without inserting them. He hands them back with a smile and a bow and a nearly perfect _arigatō_ and well-rehearsed charm.

Everyone smiles in return. Victor waits until they’re gone before he shakes his head, signaling that he still hasn’t found the right music for either program.

“We’ll go after your Nationals,” says Victor. “There’s no question of leaving earlier – we’d only have to return, and the jet lag alone—”

“I was thinking the expense of last-minute plane tickets,” says Yuuri wryly. “You blew all your frequent flyer miles on upgrades.”

“Worth it,” says Victor, brushing the concern aside. “Hello! I can see you like your music. Can I ask what it is?”

Yuuri waits patiently while Victor samples some more music from a teenaged girl, who cannot stop giggling at either of them. Given the way she’s frantically typing something on her phone as they leave her, Yuuri thinks she was probably a fan.

Yuuri wonders if there’s a tag trending. _#VictorStoleMyMusic_. Phichit would know.

“Rap,” says Victor, wonderingly. “This is not just a way to find music, Yuuri. It’s a social experiment. We should publish a paper.”

“I’ll need to find a place to train in Saint Petersburg,” says Yuuri.

“You’ll train with me, of course,” says Victor.

Yuuri’s eyes widen. “How? I thought the Russian training facilities were secret—”

“It’s hardly the Soviet era any longer, Yuuri!”

Yuuri snorts. “Like you remember the Soviet era.”

“I remember a little bit,” says Victor. “Mostly the queuing. Yakov will be able to smooth things over.”

“Like with Russian Nationals,” says Yuuri without thinking, and he winces immediately when Victor frowns. “Oh. Sorry, I—”

“No matter,” says Victor. His smile isn’t _quite_ as pasted-on as Yuuri’s seen, but it’s not as bright or cheerful as it could be.  “I’ll be skating at the Europeans, and the FFKK will send me to Worlds, regardless of whether or not I skate at Nationals. I have my TES scores from last year and my name. They won’t dare _not_ send me, I’m still the reigning Champion in _some_ things.”

It’s true enough; Victor has every qualification necessary, not to mention the celebrity status. Every television station will be clamoring for him to appear at Worlds – and Yuuri’s not so green about the inner politics of skating. Victor appearing at Worlds will drive the television ratings, as well as the advertisement income, through the roof. If he wants to skate – the ISU will let him skate. All that’s lacking is the Figure Skating Federation of Russia’s permission and his inclusion on their roster. Yuuri’s almost envious.

 _If I’d had a more stable career, I might have been able to go to the 4Cs last year even with my poor placement at Japanese Nationals_ , he thinks wryly. _I’m going to have to prove that I won’t implode this year, though. I might be a better performer now, but I’m still not dependable._

“Yuuuuuri, stop worrying! Yakov will fix it,” repeats Victor. “It’ll all work out.”

“I still need a visa,” Yuuri reminds him. “And the JSF might need to sign off, if I’m training with the Russian team. And I’ll need to find a ballet instructor—”

“Included,” says Victor.

“Huh?”

“Ballet, yoga, Pilates, nutritionists, masseurs… all of those,” says Victor. “The complex is very extensive, anything you could want is there.”

Yuuri is momentarily flummoxed. “Oh. Wow. Okay. We’ll need to find a place to live.”

“I have an apartment.”

“You do?”

“Very new building, ten floors up, view of the water.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense,” says Yuuri, in a voice that says exactly the opposite. They’re going up the hill toward the onsen now as the wind is picks up. The overcast clouds hang low over the hills.

Victor stops and looks over the bay. The wind whips his coat around his hips. His hair lifts up and flies around his head as he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. There’s no seagulls, but Yuuri has the idea that Victor’s imagining himself in Russia already.

There’s a small smile on his face. Yuuri’s not sure he’s seen Victor look this happy.

 _Because he’s going home_ , realizes Yuuri. All the sudden trepidation and uncertainty about the upcoming move melt a little bit.

“Vitya?”

“All we have to do is go,” says Victor, giddy with barely concealed excitement. “After you win at Nationals. We can be in Russia by New Year’s.” He giggles. “New Year, new start, new _life_. I like it.”

“Yeah,” says Yuuri, his breath catching on the wind that sweeps over them. It’ll be fine. He’s lived and trained as an expat before. And this time, he won’t even be alone – he’ll have Victor there beside him.

_And every kind of career support I’d ever want on top of that. It’s going to be great!_

“Yeah,” says Yuuri. Maybe Victor’s enthusiasm is catching, because it’s not terribly hard to pretend excitement. “Me too.”

*

It’s just after noon when they’re done with lunch, and Victor is quick to get on his phone. Yuuri follows him to his room, more out of habit than curiosity, and tries not to let his mother's knowing giggles turn his ears red.

 _We are discussing important life changes_ , Yuuri tells himself.  _Not getting naked. No matter what my mother thinks._

“Yakov will be awake now,” Victor explains as he sits on his bed, cross-legged. Yuuri sits at the other end of the bed, scratching Makkachin’s belly. “I’m sure he’ll want to start moving things immediately.”

“It’s six in the morning in Saint Petersburg!”

Victor shrugs. “He’ll have been at the rink for half an hour already – I may not even get him, if he lets his phone go to voicemail.”

Sure enough, Victor ends up leaving Yakov a message in bright, cheerful Russian, except for the end when he holds the phone out to Yuuri and says in English, “Say goodbye, Yuuri!”

“Bye,” says Yuuri, acutely embarrassed for Yakov.

Victor disconnects the call – and then is immediately on the phone again.

“ _Dobroye utro_ , Marina Vasilievna!” he sings out. It’s another flurry of Russian, complete with pauses to indicate whoever Marina Vasilievna is, she’s someone who doesn’t ignore her phone ringing. Yuuri can’t hear her voice, but Makkachin’s hearing is more sensitive. She sits up and lets out an approving _“Woof!_ ”

“Ah, Makkachin wants to say hello,” says Victor, laughing as he holds the phone to Makkachin. The poodle gives the phone a quick lick before settling back down to allow Yuuri to scratch her back. Victor goes back to the flurry of Russian, and this time when he holds the phone out for Yuuri to say goodbye, Yuuri takes a chance.

“ _Dasvee danyo_ ,” he says, hoping he’s not completely mangling the word. Victor, however, looks delighted. There’s a burst of Russian from the phone, too – a older female voice. She sounds pleasant enough – or at least just as verbose as Victor can be.

The moment Victor hangs up the phone, he leaps onto Yuuri.

“Yuuri, that was _wonderful_.”

Yuuri blushes. “Really? I said it right?”

“Not even close,” says Victor cheerfully. “Where did you learn your Russian?”

Yuuri tries not to roll his eyes. It’s not like Victor’s truth-o-meter is exactly a surprise. “I have a secret Russian boyfriend.”

Victor gasps and pushes himself up to his hands, still hovering over him. “Who is it? Tell me it’s not Yurio.”

“No,” laughs Yuuri.

“Yakov?”

“ _Ugh_ , no.”

“Georgi!” crows Victor. He falls on Yuuri again, kissing the side of Yuuri’s neck while he tickles him. Yuuri shrieks in laughter as he tries to retaliate. They roll on the bed, kissing and giggling every place they can reach, until Makkachin lets out an annoyed _woof_ and finally jumps off the bed and pads over to the door.

“Don’t move,” says Victor. He rolls off Yuuri to let Makkachin out.

By the time he’s turned back, Yuuri is sitting up and has pulled off his shirt.

Victor’s eyes widen. “On second thought,” he says, “moving is an excellent idea.”

“A reward,” says Yuuri, blushing from the top of his head down to his stomach, and a great deal lower, too. “For waking up this morning.”

“I thought you already had your reward for that,” says Victor, kneeling opposite him. Yuuri can feel the flush growing warmer – but the way Victor brightens and leans in to kiss him makes the sudden warmth worth it.

Victor’s giggles are giddy, and his fingers are light on Yuuri’s skin, as if he’s trying to make Yuuri laugh. It’s not until Yuuri pushes him back onto the mattress and starts pulling down Victor’s sweatpants that Victor’s laughter becomes high in his throat.

“Yuu-ri,” he sighs, drawing the name out.

“Shh,” says Yuuri, feeling brave and generous and very much unlike himself. There’s something about Victor’s joy and excitement that makes Yuuri feel more confident about his suggestion than anything else he’s done in weeks.

Confident… and eager to keep Victor feeling just as good as Victor had made _him_ feel that morning.

Victor’s cock is red and thick against his stomach, and the head peeks out from the foreskin. Yuuri leans over until he can see the goosebumps rising as he exhales on the thin skin. Victor’s breath catches in his throat; he’s _still_ laughing, a little, but it’s anticipatory now.

It’s a lot easier to imagine giving Victor the best blow job in the history of the world when Victor’s still clothed. Naked, spread out on the bed, and waiting for Yuuri to begin - Yuuri has a brief flare of nerves.

 _He’s going to like it,_ Yuuri tells himself _. He’s liked it every other time I’ve done this. It’s just like landing a jump – all I have to do is clear my head and let instinct take over._

_And failing that, lots of spit._

Victor’s fingers are warm on Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri startles, having not even noticed that Victor sat up, but Victor’s smile is warm and genuine and loving. He pulls Yuuri into a gentle, unassuming kiss, as innocent as if they weren’t both in various states of undress on Victor’s bed.

“It’s okay,” whispers Victor into the kiss. “I don’t need anything else from you than what you’ve already given me.”

Yuuri’s heart aches from love.

Yuuri rests his hand on Victor’s, and slowly draws it down from his cheek. “I want to,” he breathes. He kisses Victor one more time, and then lowers Victor back down to the bed. He moved down Victor’s body, acutely aware of the way his heart pounds in his chest, his own breath, steady if a bit rapid, and the way Victor is tense with anticipation below him.

Victor’s cock is waiting; Yuuri takes it in his hand and gently mouths at the slightly loose foreskin. There’s a gentle pressure at the back of his head; Victor’s hand, Yuuri realizes, cupping him without force, just to hold him steady.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” says Victor, sounding a bit strangled.

There’s a pleasurable curl in Yuuri’s chest, hearing his name whispered on Victor’s lips. If there’s any anxiety or nerves remaining, hearing his name in _that_ tone is enough to drive them away.

“Keep saying my name,” says Yuuri. He rests his lips against the soft skin at the base of Victor’s cock and hears Victor’s breath catch in his throat. The scent is musky, still unfamiliar but pleasurable enough that Yuuri doesn’t mind spending time just breathing it in as he slowly licks his way up Victor’s length.

“Mmmm,” groans Victor, somewhere above him. His hands rest in Yuuri’s hair, so light and gentle that they might not even be there.

As if Victor’s afraid to ask for more.

_Doesn’t he know by now? He can ask me anything._

Yuuri glances to bedside table, where they keep the lube and condoms and a few other things in a drawer, shoved in the back behind a Russian-Japanese dictionary and an old skating magazine.

_If he’s not going to ask… I’ll just have to figure out what he wants on my own._

Victor’s hands are tight in Yuuri’s hair. “Yuuri - _pozhaluysta_.”

His whispered name on Victor's lips shoves every last incidental doubt out of Yuuri's head, and he scrambles on the bed a little bit to reach for the drawer. He can feel the way Victor’s chest shakes with his intake of breath. It only takes a moment to wrap his fingers around the bottle of lube.

“Yuuri,” whispers Victor.”

“I know, just…”

Yuuri lowers himself back down; he sucks the rest of Victor’s cock into his mouth in one smooth motion and hears Victor let out a hoarse cry. Victor’s hands tighten in Yuuri’s hair even more; the slight pain of it is almost good. It’s the best distraction, especially since the click of the lube bottle’s cap echoes in the room. Yuuri has to take a moment to squirt the lube on his fingers, but then he’s back onto Victor’s cock, licking and suckling and working a gentle pressure around the base, breathing in the scent of his sex.

He presses his newly slicked-up fingers to the smooth skin under Victor’s balls, and hears his name go from quiet and soft gasps into harder edges. Victor shakes beneath him, his legs spreading to give him room. When Yuuri finally slips his fingers inside, it’s so _hot_. Victor’s fingernails dig into Yuuri’s scalp as Yuuri rubs the soft inner skin.

Yuuri’s jaw aches and Victor’s hips are spasming; it’s only Yuuri’s weight on his thighs that keep Victor from bucking Yuuri off entirely. Victor still says Yuuri’s name – but it’s tighter now, sharp and bright and ready to tumble over the edge where Yuuri’s placed him.

“Yuuri!” It’s desperate, a hard-won word. Yuuri knows the feeling; the sexual tension curled up in his chest is almost more than he can bear.

“I know,” says Yuuri. He takes a breath before he swallows Victor’s cock down as deep as he can go. It’s probably not enough – and at the same time, it’s almost too much. Just when Yuuri thinks he’s not going to be able to continue – Victor lets out a cry and comes.

Yuuri’s never managed to get used to the taste, and Victor never seems to expect him to swallow anyway. The last thing Yuuri wants is a stain on the floor, so he spits it out onto his discarded tee-shirt, which is the only thing he can grab quickly. Victor laughs softly, one arm draped over his eyes.

“Wow,” he says, delighted and limp. Yuuri grins and wipes his slick hand on his shirt. Not like he’d wear it again today, anyway.

“So much for sucking the giggles out of you,” he says. Victor laughs even harder.

“Let’s get in the bed,” he says. They hoist themselves under the blankets, giggling as they wriggle until they’re snuggled together.

Victor’s breaths slow down as his fingers trail over Yuuri’s back. Yuuri closes his eyes as he rests his head against Victor’s chest.

_He’s so happy. I didn’t realize he missed Saint Petersburg this much, but… it’s so nice to see him this happy._

_No matter how hard it is, I’m glad I’m making him do this._

Yuuri glances at the clock – half an hour before they are due at Minako’s studio. Victor nuzzles into the hair on the top of his head. One day Yuuri will ask if he’s jealous of Yuuri’s so-very-thick-and-not-even-close-to-thinning hair, but right now he doesn’t feel like teasing.

“Vitya?”

“Mmm.” Victor shifts next to him. Yuuri can feel the warmth from Victor’s skin – Victor is always so _warm_. It makes getting out of bed very, very difficult.

“We need to go, Vitya – Minako-sensei is expecting us.”

Victor blows lightly on Yuuri’s hair – Yuuri’s not entirely sure _why_ Victor is always blowing on his hair, maybe it’s a Russian thing, or just a Victor thing. He’ll probably never know. “One more call to make, _solnyshko_. It won’t take long, I doubt she’s in her office this early.”

“All right,” says Yuuri. Victor sits up to reach for his phone, so Yuuri slips out of the bed and reaches for his clothes.

“ _Zdravstvuyte_ , Valentina Maratovna,” starts off Victor, sounding surprised. He pauses, and then Yuuri hears the faint sound of Russian coming from the other end.

Ah. He’s reached whoever it is he tried to call.

Yuuri dresses, only idly listening. It’s not often he gets to hear Victor speak Russian in such large doses – not since Rostelecom, anyway. Even then Victor used English as much as he could when Yuuri was near, just to make sure that Yuuri didn’t feel left out of the conversation.

Now, though… it’s not that Yuuri feels left out, exactly. But…

Yuuri knows about six words of Russian. Twelve, if he counts skating terms that are just English in a Russian accent. At least, when he’d left for Detroit, he’d been taking English at school for eight years. He hadn’t been fluent by any stretch, but he could get by until hearing and speaking and even _thinking_ in English was automatic. Just having _some_ English in his head gave him enough confidence to even attempt the move.

 _I’m going to have to learn Russian_ , he realizes as he listens to Victor’s unintelligible side of an even more unintelligible conversation. _If I’m going to live and train there, and maybe even talk to people. I can’t assume everyone is going to even speak English, let alone Japanese_.

Victor keeps talking, smiling, and gesticulating with enthusiasm. Yuuri can hear the bright optimism in his voice, the seductive cajoling, the amused teasing. Whoever it is on the other end of the line, he’s pulling out all the stops.

And Yuuri doesn’t have a clue why.

“Victor?” he whispers, pointing at the clock. “Ten minutes. We have to go.”

Victor look sheepish; the flurry of Russian that comes out of his mouth next is apologetic and like everything else, too rapid for Yuuri to follow. After a moment, he gives a sharp nod and places his hand over the receiver to speak to Yuuri. “Go without me, Yuuri. Tell Minako I will be there as soon as I possibly can. This is very important.”

It’s not… _cold_ , exactly. Yuuri’s sure the conversation is important.

It still feels like he’s being dismissed, though.

“Okay,” says Yuuri. Victor smiles brightly at him, but he’s back on the phone before Yuuri even reaches for the door. Yuuri slips out as quietly as he can, making sure to slide the door shut behind him.

It only takes a minute to stop in the bathroom to wash up before going to his bedroom to fetch his dance bag. Makkachin is stretched out on his bed. She gives him an accusatory look even as she thumps her tail, and Yuuri scratches her behind the ears.

“Who’s he talking to, girl?” asks Yuuri, speaking in Japanese.

Makkachin doesn’t seem to mind; she thumps her tail again and gives Yuuri’s hand a half-hearted lick.

“Guess I’ll find out eventually,” sighs Yuuri, and heads out.

Minako is crouched in front of her CD player when Yuuri arrives. She brightens the minute Yuuri steps in – but it’s clear that she’s much more excited to see the person who doesn’t come in with him. “Where is he?”

“Talking to someone in Russia,” explains Yuuri. “He didn’t expect them to be in, but he says it’s important and he’ll be here as soon as he can.”

Minako shrugs and sighs, before switching the CDs around again. “It can wait until he gets here, I guess. As long as he _gets_ here. He needs to choose music and fast, if he’s going to learn two entire programs before the end of January.”

She stabs at the _play_ button and the familiar tinkly-piano warm-up music fills the studio.

“All right, let’s get to work. Your arms were sloppy in your free skate last week.”

Yuuri’s mouth drops open. “I… I got the highest score in _history_.”

“That was last week,” says Minako coolly.  “What are you going to do for me next week at Nationals?”

Yuuri groans as he slides into first position.

It’s the same warm-up as when Yuuri was small; he can do it without thinking twice, which gives him a guaranteed five-minute span to let his thoughts wander. Sometimes that’s not the best of ideas, but today, Yuuri couldn’t stop the thoughts if he tried.

_I’m not sure why Minako thinks my arms were weak during my free skate last week – I never felt as strong or sure on the ice before. I wonder if she’s mistaking ease for complacency? It’s something to consider, I suppose – I can’t get so comfortable in the routine that I let the details slide! I probably won’t top that score again, but that’s no reason to get lazy about it. She’s right. It doesn’t matter what I did at the Grand Prix Final – it only matters how I do at Nationals next week._

_I’m not Victor Nikiforov. I don’t have five world championships. I’ve never won gold at the international level. I’ve got the TES scores now, but if I don’t place in the top three at Japan’s Nationals, they won’t send me to Worlds. No matter who my coach is._

“Yuuri-kun,” sings Minako, feet in fourth, arms out. “Pirouette!”

Yuuri moves his feet and arms into position, and then looks for the same spot he always does – a picture of a chicken that Minako keeps pinned to the wall for her students to use.

The chicken’s gone. Instead, there’s a picture of Yuuri, smiling widely as he proudly holds up his silver medal with Minako next to him. Yuuri knows the picture – Mari took it when they’d gone out to eat in celebration the night before the gala.

“Minako!” shouts Yuuri. He falls over just as he’s launching into his pirouette.

Minako steps lightly to stand over him, bending straight at the waist. “Just as I thought. You need to work on ignoring unexpected distractions! How do you expect to stay upright on the ice when the crowd is baying for your blood?”

Yuuri groans and sits up. “Why did you put that picture _there_?”

“Motivation!” says Minako cheerfully. “You aren’t my only student, Yuuri-kun. Close, but not only.”

Yuuri sighs and rubs his hip, sore from where he’d fallen. “You could have _warned_ me.”

“And ruin the surprise? You’re missing the point of the exercise. Up, again. Six rotations minimum, please.”

Yuuri glares at her and goes up on his toes. It takes two tries to get six rotations perfectly, and then he repeats the pirouette twice more, just to cement the feeling of it in his mind. Not that he’ll ever be able to do six rotations on the ice, but Minako has always demanded more of him in the ballet studio than what is necessary for ice skating.

He supposes it’s her way of coping with the fact that her advice to try figure skating in the first place resulted in the loss of her most talented ballet student.

They spend the rest of the time working on Yuuri’s choreography for the free skate. By the end of the hour, Yuuri thinks he’s regained the sense of definition that Minako has always demanded from him.

“You always lose the sharp edge on the ice,” she sighs.

“I just trade it for a different sharp edge,” Yuuri replies. Minako snorts as she looks at the clock. Yuuri follows her gaze, surprised to see they only have ten minutes left before her afternoon beginner’s class arrives. “Oh. I guess Victor’s still on the phone.”

“I was really looking forward to playing him that music, too,” sighs Minako. “I don’t think he’ll like any of it, but it might help me find what he really _does_ like. Six weeks isn’t a lot of time to prepare two programs.”

“More than a week, at least,” says Yuuri.

Minako gives him a quizzical look. “Huh?”

“Oh, I forgot you didn’t know.” Yuuri rubs the back of his neck. “He wanted to skate at Russian Nationals.”

Minako’s mouth drops open. “But… that’s at the same time as _Japan’s_ Nationals.”

“He’s not going to – Yakov said he couldn’t get him on the roster.”

 _Or Yakov just said that. Maybe he realized before Victor did that he’d never be ready in time. Because given this morning’s practice – he wouldn’t be_.

_I wonder if he’s worried that he won’t be ready for the Europeans, either._

“He’s a madman,” says Minako in wonder.

“Not as much as me,” says Yuuri, almost jokingly – because if he can’t laugh about this, he might cry. “I agreed to win him five world championships.”

Minako stares at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. Yuuri thinks she’s laughing at the idea of him winning gold – and her first words don’t dissuade him. “You… win… _five_ …”

Yuuri flushes. “Okay, fine, I know it’s stupid—”

“Oh, _Yuuri-kun_ ,” says Minako warmly, still laughing. “Do you really think it’s going to take _five_ gold medals to convince that boy to marry you?”

The warmth spreads out from Yuuri’s chest into his stomach and shoulders and neck and legs. It’s not a flush, though it might as well be. “Even if I’d won gold at the Grand Prix Final, I don’t think we’d get married before summer. It’s the middle of the season, and what with moving….”

Minako stops laughing. “Moving?”

“Oh.” Yuuri fiddles with his shirt. “Yeah. I’m… I’m going to Saint Petersburg. With Victor. He needs a coach, and there isn’t one here, and…”

Minako slowly sits down on the floor, with all the grace and feather-lightness of the prima ballerina she once was. There’s a strange look on her face that Yuuri isn’t sure he’s interpreting correctly – she doesn’t look _stunned_ , exactly. It’s almost as if she’s _smiling_. As if Yuuri has told her something she knows bone-deep, and she only needs reminding.

“I thought you might,” she says finally. “I wasn’t sure you’d agree so quickly.”

There’s something wrong about her words. It takes Yuuri a moment to realize what it is.

“I didn’t agree,” he says, sinking down next to her. “I’m the one who suggested it.”

That’s enough to shock Minako senseless – her mouth drops open and she just stares at Yuuri with such a look of incredulous wonder that he begins to think he’s sprouted horns, or maybe has suddenly popped into an anime character.

“Minako-sensei?”

“You don’t even know what you want for _lunch_ most days,” blurts out Minako.

Which is just… okay, _true_ , but only because his current dietary restrictions don’t let him have what he _really_ wants. “ _He’s_ never going to admit he needs to move to Saint Petersburg to train. One of us needs to be the reasonable one.”

Minako lets out a laugh. “You’re sure?”

Yuuri has no idea if Minako is questioning his decision to go to Saint Petersburg – or the fact that Yuuri thinks _he’s_ the reasonable one. He nods anyway. It’s easier than speaking, considering how tight his throat is just then.

Minako nods sharply and then glances at the clock. It’s five minutes past now – and Yuuri realizes with a start that not a single one of her dance students have arrived.

“Just as well,” says Minako, following Yuuri’s gaze. She stands up just as gracefully as she went down. “You and I have a great deal of work to do.”

“Eh?”

“Because if you think I am sending you to Russia with anything less than a gold medal from the Japanese Nationals,” says Minako, with a steely determination that Yuuri remembers from a thousand-and-one late-night sessions, “you are very much mistaken, Katsuki Yuuri. On your feet. We should get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dasvee danyo (Russian) - Goodbye, but mispronounced  
> Pozhaluysta (Russian) – please  
> Zdravstvuyte (Russian) – Hello (formal)
> 
> Please note that I've decided not to repeat translations for basic words/phrases (such as solnyshko, hello, goodbye, yes, no, etc.) If you would rather I continue translating those with floating text and in the end notes, however, please let me know and I'm happy to add them back in.


	4. Home Again, Home Again (Jiggity Jig)

When Victor finally hangs up the phone after his conversation with Valentina Maratovna, his ear is warm and slightly damp and his neck has a kink in it. There’s forty-five minutes left before Yuuri’s ballet class with Minako is over – plenty of time to head to the studio and at least make an appearance – but instead, Victor flops down on the bed. The phone falls out of his hand and he stares up at the ceiling, thinking.

The giddy excitement he’s felt since Yuuri’s announcement that morning is still there, but now it’s tempered with the thousands of things to be done on both sides of the globe. He and Yuuri will need to pack, arrange for Makkachin’s travel papers, purchase plane tickets, ship all of Victor’s things back to Saint Petersburg, say goodbye to Yuuko and Nishigori and the triplets and everyone else Yuuri’s known all his life, and everyone Victor’s befriended in Hasetsu.

All of that, in between Yuuri continuing to train for his Nationals while Victor continues to look for his music, plan his choreography, and think about his costumes. Work his body and his mindset back into competitive shape while he continues thinking ahead for not just Yuuri’s career, but his own.

Victor’s sure he’s forgetting something. There’s too much to remember. But louder than all the things he needs to do is one strangely numb thought:

_I’m going home._

If Victor closes his eyes, he can hear the sounds from the inn. Victor’s helped out on the busier afternoons while Minako pushes and prods Yuuri through his paces at the dance studio. It’s not hard to imagine what the Katsukis are doing while he sorts through the conversations and to-do lists in his head. Hiroko’s bright voice as she prepares food in the kitchen, Toshiya’s hearty laughter as he greets new arrivals, Mari’s wry commentary as she replaces towels and soaps and floral arrangements. Victor could get out of the bed and find them exactly as he imagines them, and that sort of permanence and dependability is soothing when sometimes it seems like the entire past year has been nothing but one surprise after another.

A year ago, he’d expected to attend yet another staid and dimly uncomfortable Grand Prix banquet. Instead, he’d danced with Yuuri and fallen a little bit in love with him. Or at least, a little bit in deep fascination. It was probably the same thing. It’d been the best surprise of his life – and the best surprise of Yuuri’s too. Victor knew it, because Yuuri had even _said_ as much while they’d been dancing and twirling together.

Which was why the weeks that went by without word from Yuuri were just as much a surprise as the way Yuuri had held him and spun him around the dance floor.

_I was excited before, but now… going home feels real._

The video, that was another surprise. Weeks – _months_ – of no word, and then it’s a video posted from someone else’s account, public for the entire world to see. Yuuri calling out to Victor using _Victor’s own program_. As if Yuuri was _challenging_ him. As if the lack of communication was entirely Victor’s fault, and Yuuri was blameless.

And the video itself – a surprise within a surprise, because the moment Victor watched Yuuri skating to Stammi, he knew without a doubt.

For years, winning gold had been too easy. No one was as good on the ice as Victor Nikiforov – not Chris, not Georgi, not Cao. No one could match him. He was untouchable.

Victor loved skating, but more than that – he loved a challenge.

Skating wasn’t a challenge. _Winning_ wasn’t a challenge. It was rote. It was stale. It was… expected.

Victor wanted to see Yuuri dance on the ice as though fire was in his veins. To see him skate Stammi like it was part of his soul. They might have both been on the senior circuit together, but Yuuri had never posed much of a threat to Victor’s status. Having seen the video, Victor knew there was something in Yuuri that hadn’t been tapped. Some deep well of emotion and desire that if he could just _reach_ it… Yuuri would blow them all away.

He’d blow _Victor_ away. And how badly did Victor want to be blown away. To look at his scores and the final rankings after a competition and be _surprised_ at the outcome.

Yuuri could do that. Victor had no doubt.

Victor was surprised, watching Yuuri’s video on his too-small cell phone screen – but more than that, he was _angry_.

Why the _fuck_ wasn’t Yuuri giving him the challenge they both deserved?

_He’ll give me that challenge now. I’ve made sure of it._

Eight months ago, Victor’s only intention was to get Katsuki Yuuri up on his feet – or skates – and back into competitive form. Victor intended to “retire” just long enough to whip Yuuri into shape and put him on the Grand Prix podium – rewrite history, as it were – and then he’d return to competitive skating in time for Worlds with a new rival to battle.

_He’s already surprised everyone. I’ve got to be ready to surprise him, too._

Three months ago, Victor had surprised himself… and fallen the rest of the way in love.

_I can’t do this halfway. I have to be all in._

Three weeks ago, Victor surprised himself again… and agreed to stay as Yuuri’s coach until retirement. To hang up his skates for good.

To be fair – Victor had given up on the idea of returning the minute he gave away his programs to Yura and Yuuri, even if he hadn’t realized it at the time. It wasn’t as if he’d bothered to choreograph new ones; it was November before he realized what that meant.

And now…

_Yuuri will know if I’m not in it to win – and he’ll take any lack of effort on my part as a sign that I don’t think he’s a worthy competitor._

_He’s worthy. He’s my equal, even if he doesn’t believe it._

_I have to make him believe he’s just as good as I am. And the only way to make him believe something like that is to prove it on the ice, by making him meet me where I am._

Halfway around the world, Yakov is probably complaining and grumbling and cursing Victor’s name. Arguing with anyone who will listen about the impetuousness of youth, the unreliability of fame, the idiocy of spoiled young brats who don’t stop to consider the toll on their bodies, even as he talks to the various trainers and instructors about how to fit Yuuri into their schedules.

Valentina Maratovna is contacting the press liaison about issuing a statement. She’ll arrange with her friend at the JSF to smooth Yuuri’s way, she’ll organize a visa and somehow manage to wedge Yuuri into Yubileyny’s daily ebb and flow.

The great wheels of the Russian sports machine, adjusting to allow a new cog into its place.

Somehow… that’s just as reassuring as knowing what Hiroko and Toshiya and Mari are doing in the onsen. As comforting as knowing that across town, Minako counts out beats while Yuuri performs _fouettés_ in front of the mirror.

_And now… I’m part of it again, too. I wonder if Yuuri’s already feeling the shackles. I think I do._

The last eight months have been idyllic – a picture perfect diorama inside a protected shell, as delicate and valuable as one of the Fabergé eggs on display at the Hermitage. A tiny ceramic Yuuri skating on thin ice, with Victor supporting him from behind. Enclosed, safe… and somehow, Victor’s felt more freedom in the protective sphere of Hasetsu than he has at any other point in this life.

_Free… I need a free skate. I need a short program._

_And I’ll need them soon._

There’s a gentle knock on the door. “Vic-chan?” Hiroko asks softly.

Victor pushes himself up to sitting. “I’m awake,” he calls, shaking off the dark thoughts. The door slides open and Makkachin bounds inside, tail wagging happily. Hiroko follows her, carrying a tray.

“Did you have a nice nap?” asks Hiroko. She sets the tray down on the side table – there’s a plate of cookies and a pot of tea. “I know you’re meant to be on a strict diet now, but you’ll want the sugar to wake up!”

“ _Arigato_ ,” says Victor, scratching Makkachin in the scruff behind her ears. “I wasn’t napping. Just… thinking.”

“So much pressure you put on yourself.” Hiroko clucks as she pours out a cup of tea for him. It’s not the black tea he grew up drinking, but the green matcha with milk and sugar that he knows makes Yuuri shudder. Despite Yuuri’s sweet tooth, he drinks his tea without sugar at all. Victor remembers Russian tea with jam with a sudden influx of anticipation; he doesn’t have to wonder what Yuuri will think of it.

“Nothing new, just temporarily forgotten,” says Victor as he reaches for the tea. He eyes the cookies longingly.

_Training diet. I am on a strict training diet. No cookies. No delicious cookies that I will probably be unable to find in Saint Petersburg. No delicate, sugar-coated cookies that will never survive international mail._

_One cookie._

Hiroko makes a non-committal sound. “Yuuri thought you would sleep a bit.”

“I don’t _always_ sleep after—" begins Victor, a bit hotly, but remembers who he’s talking to just in time. He swallows the rest of the sentence down along with the almost-too-hot tea. Hiroko grins at him anyway. Maybe she can read the flush on his cheeks.

“After a phone call?” Hiroko fills in cheerfully as she bustles around the room, picking up clothes. “I hope everything’s all right at home, Vic-chan.”

 _Yuuri should be the one tell her_ , thinks Victor. “Yes. Everything’s fine. Just a lot to do.”

“I’m sure.”

Hiroko reaches for the tee-shirt still crumpled on the floor.

The tee-shirt that Yuuri had spit into after—

“Oh,” says Victor, a bit squeakier than normal. “I can pick those up, it’s all right.”

“Oh,” says Hiroko, hand hovering above the tee-shirt. She glances at the shirt, eyes wide, before glancing back at Victor again.

_Does she recognize it as Yuuri’s?_

_Well… it’s not as if she’s not aware that we’re sharing a bed sometimes._

And then Hiroko laughs and draws her hand away. “If it makes you feel better, Vic-chan, of course. Bring them to the laundry room, I’ll wash them there. Your sheets, too,” she adds, eyes twinkling. “I’m sure they could use a wash.”

Victor’s brain short-circuits. “Uh.”

Hiroko pats Makkachin on the head. “Enjoy your tea, Vic-chan.”

Hiroko slides the door closed behind her with a click, taking all the dirty clothes – except for Yuuri’s soiled tee-shirt and the sheets on Victor’s bed.

“Woof,” says Makkachin, drawing Victor out of the haze. She butts Victor’s hand with her head, clearly looking for the attention she’d been receiving from Hiroko.

Victor chuckles and scratches his dog’s head. “No wonder you like each other,” he tells his dog. “You both see through me too easily.”

Makkachin lets out an agreeable _woof_ , wriggling a bit as if asking a question. Victor shakes his head. “No cookie for you,” he tells Makkachin sternly.

The tiny powdered-sugar coated cookies are arranged prettily on a plate. Victor’s eaten them by the handful ever since Hiroko first served them to him back in May. He can’t place the flavor, only that like everything else Hiroko serves, it’s delicious.

He wonders who will eat all the cookies she makes after they go.

 _All right, two cookies_.

When he pops the first cookie into his mouth, he’s pleasantly surprised to find they’re still warm.

Victor closes his eyes. He breathes in the tea, swallows the cookie, and falls back on his bed again. It smells like Yuuri, Hiroko’s laundry detergent, and the faint scent of the salt and sulfur from the onsen.

Victor breathes it in deep – and somewhere in the back of his mind, begins to imagine what that scent would look like if he danced it on the ice.

The afternoon shadows grow longer; Makkachin settles down for a nap, snuggled at Victor’s side. The tea grows cold, the cookies remain uneaten, and Victor loses himself in the new familiar scents and the renewed excitement of dancing on ice.

*

 **Victor to Sergei**  
I need a short program.  
A free skate, too.  
Can you compose them by New Year’s? Or at least Christmas?

 **Sergei to Victor**  
Hello, Sergei, I know it’s been months since we spoke, how have you been?  
The last two programs you wrote for me were so beautiful I gave them away.  
I hope you don’t mind.

 **Victor to Sergei  
** Yura won gold and Yuuri won silver with your music. I would think you would be pleased.

 **Sergei to Victor  
** It’s the middle of your season. Who needs a short program now?

 **Victor to Sergei**  
Me.  
I’m coming back to competitive skating.  
I need a short program and a free skate for Europeans at the end of January.  
Sergei? It’s been ten minutes.

 **Sergei to Victor**  
I’m still laughing.

 **Victor to Sergei  
** Can you do them or not?

 **Sergei to Victor**  
What do you want to skate about?

 **Victor to Sergei**  
I don’t know.

 **Sergei to Victor  
** Of course you don’t.

*

Yuuri has never been so grateful for seven-year-old ballet students as he is when they finally arrive at Minako’s studio. He’s out of breath and vaguely dizzy when a cluster of them bound into the room and stare with wide eyes as Minako puts him through his paces.

“I suppose that will do for today,” she says, clearly begrudging her normal schedule reasserting itself. “Go home and soak in the onsen, you’ll feel better.”

“I’m supposed to be at the gym in twenty minutes for strength training,” says Yuuri. He’s still too out of breath to give the words the bitterness he’d like, but only because Minako eats bitterness for breakfast.

“Will Victor be there? Give him the CDs, you can listen to them as you work out.”

Yuuri groans.

“If you were hoping I’d give you leave to skip it!” sings Minako as she collects the CDs.

“No, definitely not,” grumbles Yuuri. He sits on a bench to pull off his ballet shoes. One of the little ballerinas is sitting on the other end of the bench, blatantly staring at him with her mouth dropped open, completely unconscious of how rude she’s being. Her hair is in two mismatched pigtails and she has the thickest eyelashes Yuuri’s ever seen on anyone.

She’s completely adorable and completely focused on him. Yuuri feels the flush on his cheeks.

_I never know what to do…._

_What would Victor do?_

Yuuri smiles a bit shyly at her. The girl sucks in a breath; her eyes go even wider.

Bright, tinkling warm-up music fills the studio. “All right, everyone line up, class is beginning,” says Minako briskly. The little ballerina is off the bench so fast it might be on fire.

Yuuri grins and finishes tying his sneakers.

_I hope Victor’s phone call was all right. I don’t know if it going so long is a good sign or a bad sign. Probably good - this is a really big move, and if he wants to be there by New Year’s, there’s a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it in._

_*_

Yuuri’s only a little bit surprised to find Victor already at the gym, bouncing with excess energy that cannot be contained by weight machines alone. While Yuuri does stomach crunches and push-ups, balances on a yoga ball and stretches his muscles as far as he can manage, Victor is jumping rope and climbing stairs. Watching him makes Yuuri dizzy.

“Everything’s in place,” Victor tells Yuuri, as easily as if he’s taking a stroll in the park and not on what surely must be the highest level on the elliptical machine. “Valentina knows someone on the JSF – she said she’d work on getting whatever permissions and funding you’ll need for training in Saint Petersburg.”

“Funding,” echoes Yuuri. The word is an icicle to his gut. It’s not like the Russians are going to take gold medals as payment.

_Even if I had any they’d want to take. The last gold I won was almost seven years ago. I don’t think it counts._

“Sponsors shouldn’t care where you train as long as you win,” continues Victor. “And you’re going to do that anyway. Yakov says you can skate with us as long as he isn’t expected to take you on a student.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri faintly.

“Don’t worry about him, he says that about everyone. And you’re _my_ student, not his, so it’s not like you’d go to him for advice anyway. He’ll find a way to work you into the schedule; you’ll have ballet and yoga along with the rest of us, and there’s other options for additional conditioning as well if you want to take them. I think swimming would be good; it’s a nice way to unwind after practice. Not as good as the onsen, of course – oh! There’s a sauna in my building, Yuuri. You’ll love it. Marina Vasilievna will open the apartment and purchase some groceries. And I bought plane tickets. We’ll fly to Russia three days after your Nationals. That’ll give us enough time to come back here and complete Makkachin’s paperwork – and then we go!”

It’s too much, too fast; Yuuri can barely keep up.

“At least she’s up on her vaccinations. And I talked to Sergei about my music—”

This is safer territory, at least.

“You picked your music?” Yuuri interrupts.

“No,” admits Victor. “But Sergei is a genius. He’ll find it, if no one else can.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Minako-sensei gave me a pile of CDs for you,” Yuuri tells him. “She wants you to sort them into three piles.”

“Oh?”

“Possibility, Decent But Not Right For Skating, and Horrible Never Want to Hear It Again.”

Victor laughs. “I’ll miss Minako. Where is the music? I can listen to it now.”

The music isn’t all terrible, but very little of it ends up in the _Possibility_ pile. None of it is right.

“Joe Hisaishi,” says Victor thoughtfully, tapping the CD he liked best as they walk home from the gym. “Japanese-American?”

“Japanese,” says Yuuri. “It’s his professional name. I skated to one of his pieces a few years ago.”

“Not this one?”

Yuuri laughs. “No, but you could skate one of my old programs if you wanted.”

“Fair trade,” says Victor. “Can I wear your old costume, too?”

“Even if I still had it, you probably wouldn’t fit into it.” Yuuri glances at Victor as they turn up the steps to the onsen. “Are you thinking to use Japanese music?”

“Not exactly. It’s going to be – _eurgh_ ,” complains Victor. “I know it, in my head. I can’t find the words in English.”

The thought that occurs to Yuuri makes so much _sense_ , he’s surprised Victor hasn’t tried it. “Tell me in Russian.”

Victor frowns – and then launches into an animated stream of words that Yuuri can’t understand. The unintelligible monologue continues all the way up to his room where they drop their bags. He’s still going on in Russian as they walk through the crowded main dining room, drawing every amazed and curious eye.

Yuuri settles next to him on the pillows that surround the table in the private dining room reserved for family and listens. Victor in Japanese is a curious mix of hesitant and unflinching willingness to make mistakes. Victor in English is funny and friendly, with an ease that isn’t present in Japanese.

Victor in Russian is something else altogether. He’s expressive, demonstrative, and vibrant in a way that reminds Yuuri of the way Victor skates. The words flow so beautifully that Yuuri aches with wanting to know what he’s saying, while at the same time he thinks he might understand it anyway.

Victor in Russian is alive, brilliant, flashing with color and life. Yuuri has no idea how this Victor is the same as the Victor in English he loves, or the Victor in Japanese he wants to protect.

This is the Victor whom he admired from afar. Yuuri watches Victor, larger than life in Russian, and feels very small.

All at once, seemingly in mid-word, Victor stops talking.

“Oh,” says Victor, realization blossoming on his face. “ _Oh_. _Da_! Yes! Yuuri, you’re a genius, that’s exactly it.”

“Huh?”

Victor grasps Yuuri’s arms. “That’s what I need for my program. As soon as I had to say it in Russian, it was obvious! How did you know?”

“Well,” says Yuuri, blushing now. “You’ve always created your programs in Russian before. I wouldn’t think that would change.”

Victor leans forward and kisses him – two quick kisses on Yuuri’s cheeks, entirely European in style, and then one on his lips, with the same alacrity and energy.

Yuuri laughs as Victor draws away. “I just wish I knew what you were saying.”

“You’ll have to learn Russian,” says Victor as he pulls out his phone. “I need to text Sergei before it flies out of my head.”

Victor types rapidly on his phone while the door slides open behind them. Mari enters carrying bowls of rice.

“Thought you were here already,” she says, setting the bowls down. “You have the entire place buzzing about whatever it was you were doing just now.”

“Choreographing,” says Victor happily, still texting.

Yuuri gets to his feet. “I’ll help,” he offers, following Mari.

The kitchen is muggy, thick with the scent of toasted sesame oil and soy. Yuuri’s still over-heated body immediately breaks into a sweat while Hiroko loads a tray for him. Tiny bottles of sauce, chopsticks, small plates, glasses for water and cups for tea. The glasses of sake are the tiniest in the inn, because Victor drinks like it’s water and blames it on being Russian. Yuuri has a brief moment of panic, imagining hot-and-cold running taps of vodka in Victor’s apartment, before he realizes that it’s a silly idea.

Maybe a silly idea.

 _Hopefully_ a silly idea.

He’s not going to mention it to Victor, he of the gold-medal-tiled bathrooms.

_He’s right. I’m going to need to learn Russian. A lot of Russian._

“You look very worried,” says Hiroko cheerfully as she continues loading Yuuri’s tray. “Was practice all right?”

“Oh. Yeah. It was fine,” says Yuuri, trying to shake off the distraction. “Great. Fantastic.”

“Oh, good, I hoped Vic-chan would have a good time!” says Hiroko. “I made his favorite salmon for dinner. It’s today’s special, just for him! Much healthier than fried-egg and natto for breakfast.”

_Mom is going to miss Victor so much. She might even miss him more than she’ll miss me._

_I have to tell them. Soon._

“Thanks,” says Yuuri, wondering why he’s suddenly feeling cold, despite the heat in the kitchen.

The feeling doesn’t go away as he follows Mari back into the dining room, balancing the tray carefully with both hands. Victor glances up from his phone before tucking it away.

“All done!” he says cheerfully. “Ooo, is that wasabi salmon? My favorite!”

“I know,” laughs Hiroko. When she pats Victor on the head, he _beams_.

Yuuri unloads the tray, strangely disconnected from the conversation that surrounds him as Victor and Hiroko talk. The warmth from the kitchen is still on his skin, and Victor’s fingers on his arm are cool enough to make him nearly drop the bottle of soy sauce as he sets it down on the table.

“You’ll need to tell them,” Victor murmurs to him in English. Yuuri startles, glancing over to where Hiroko had been standing – but she’s gone again, presumably to fetch something else from the kitchen. Mari is pulling more cushions from the cabinet on the side. Her English isn’t as fluent as Yuuri’s, she probably doesn’t know what they’re saying. “Unless you’d rather I say something.”

“No, I should,” replies Yuuri, stubborn. He’s their son, not Victor, even if Hiroko probably likes Victor best.

“Shove over,” says Mari, because the table is set for four, not five. Victor moves so he and Yuuri can share one side of the table together.

Toshiya and Hiroko return with the rest of their dinner – and then the dining room is a laughing, cheerful mess of Japanese and English.

“I just took another reservation for next week—”

“Here, Vic-chan, have more salmon! You need your strength.”

“We’re already booked, Dad, you can’t take any more reservations!”

“We can find room somewhere.”

Yuuri watches his family – the three he grew up with, the one he chose – and they are so perfect together, so much in sync. It hurts watching them, knowing that however he chooses to phrase it, it’s going to be like he’s choosing one of them over the others.

He’s not. He _is_. He hates it.

“It’s delicious, Hiroko-san!”

“Thank you, Vic-chan!”

It was different when Yuuri left for Detroit. Hiroko and Toshiya had been part of that decision. It had been a given, not a discussion: for Yuuri to succeed on the ice, he’d have to leave in pursuit of more advanced training. The only question was his destination. The United States or Canada? This coach or that coach?

Leaving when he was eighteen had been the right thing to do. It’s the right thing now. But…

He didn’t know, leaving at the age of eighteen, what exactly he was leaving behind.

Now, he can’t forget.

“Yuuri’s room,” says Toshiya. “He’s not sleeping there.”

“Dad! We can’t put someone in _Yuuri’s_ room – even if he’s sleeping in Victor’s!” exclaims Mari.

Yuuri freezes. _Oh my God_. _They know. How do they know?!?!?_

“I can move to Yuuri’s,” offers Victor. “It won’t take very much to move my things out.”

“Don’t be silly, we aren’t kicking you out of your room,” Hiroko reassures him.

“Besides, Yuuri’s bed is smaller,” says Mari. Yuuri briefly considers dying on the spot.

“I don’t mind,” says Victor. He nudges Yuuri again.

_He wants me to say something. “Don’t worry, Dad, you’ll have both our rooms to rent out soon enough!”_

“The storage room at the top of the stairs,” says Toshiya. The moment’s not lost, not yet.

“Maybe,” says Mari, thoughtfully.

_I just came back and now I’m leaving again. They’re going to be so disappointed. Are they going to blame Victor? I mean – I would, if I were them. I don’t want them to blame Victor! It’s not his fault, it’s mine for insisting he come back to skating._

_And Mom likes him so much… I don’t want her to hate him._

Yuuri’s stomach turns. His hands clench on his thighs. He can’t even look at the salmon in front of him.

 _Victor’s favorite_. It’s one of Yuuri’s favorites, too – not as comforting as katsudon, but delicious and reasonably healthy, with sharp wasabi and creamy salmon melting on his tongue.

He stares at the colorful meal, pink and green, yellow peppers and orange carrots on the side and white rice underneath. Victor has already declared the meal _“Vkusno!_ ” and is cheerfully eating every last bite.

_They’re going to hate him for taking me away. They’re going to hate me for choosing him over them. This is the last time we’ll ever be happy together as a family, before I break us all apart._

“Yuuri? Is something wrong?” asks Hiroko kindly as Mari raises an eyebrow.

Yuuri tries to swallow. He can’t. He’s going to throw up. He’s going to faint. He can feel the sweat pouring down his face, pooling around his knees and ankles, and he’s going to drown in it, with a naked Victor Nikiforov on the other side of the bath, arm stretched out and glorious. _“I’m your new coach, and you’re going to win gold!”_

_Oh no. Ohnonononononononono._

Victor shifts next to him. “Yuuri?”

“I… I can’t….”

Yuuri shoves back from the table and flees, straight out of the dining room and through the inn’s rear doors leading to the garden. He doesn’t stop running until he’s collapsed over the fence overlooking Hasetsu.

Somehow, it’s easier to breathe outside, even with the cold. Yuuri sucks down air as if he’s been holding his breath underwater for the last few hours.

_This is… so much bigger than moving to Detroit. I have to do it – Victor has to do it – and it’s the right decision, it’s the only way we can go forward. But… I can’t tell them. It’d break their hearts._

The fence digs into his stomach – it ought to hurt. Instead it acts as a center, and somehow the pressure on his abdomen is enough to drive out all the pressure in his head. Yuuri focuses on the discomfort and breathes until he doesn’t feel like he’s going to implode anymore.

He’s not surprised to hear footsteps on the concrete behind him. Of course Victor would follow him. He’ll sit on the bench and he’ll wait for Yuuri to pull himself together, to slink back next to him, to apologize and try to find the words in English that explain what he’s feeling.

That’s what Victor does. He’s already halfway to meeting Yuuri’s fears and worries. Yuuri only needs to turn around.

But it’s not Victor who speaks.

“I always liked this view,” says Hiroko softly. Yuuri squeezes his eyes closed, his hands gripping the wood slats of the fence. “Vicchan, too. We’d sit out here and look at the way the sun danced on the water in the bay.”

Yuuri is _not_ going to whimper. He’s twenty-four years old. He’s a grown man. He’s got a fiancé and a career and he is _not_ going to cry because his mother just reminded him that he’d abandoned his dog in pursuit of all of that six years ago.

“Mom,” he manages to say.

“Do you think we don’t know that you and Vic-chan are leaving?” asks Hiroko, her voice gentle as always. Yuuri can hear the slight difference in the way she says the name: _Vicchan_ for the dog he’d loved as a child. _Vic-chan_ for the man he loves as an adult.

Yuuri has to think hard to unwrap his fingers from the fence. They’re still stinging when he turns around to stare at his mother, sitting on the bench overlooking the bay. It’s the same bench where he and Victor once sat and tried to have a conversation about love.

It occurs to Yuuri that he’s still not entirely sure how Victor defines _love_.  Apart from wanting to smooth the way for him, anyway.

“He told you,” says Yuuri flatly.

“Of course not,” says Hiroko.

“Then how…?”

“I’m your mother. I don’t need him to tell me what is going through your mind.” Hiroko shrugs. “And anyway, it’s obvious that Vic-chan can’t train here. He needs his own coach, his own ice. He needs to go home. It’s time.”

Yuuri slumps. “I think I’m the last person to figure that out.”

“Not quite,” says Hiroko gently. She pats the bench next to her, and Yuuri takes the invitation to sit down. When he leans over to rest his head on Hiroko’s shoulder, hands limp in his lap, it’s less because he’s suddenly exhausted and more because she’s _there_.

She’s warm, so warm; Yuuri is suddenly well aware of how cold it is outside. His sweater isn’t nearly warm enough, but he doesn’t want to go in to find a coat.

Hiroko pats his hands and reaches to rest her fingers on his cheek. “You’ll visit more often than before.”

“Yes,” promises Yuuri. “Victor… he loves it here. I do, too. I wish… I wish I could take all of you with me.”

He can feel his mother press her lips into his hair. It says all the things she won’t say. It’s enough.

“Sit here with me for a while,” says Hiroko.

“Okay, Mom,” whispers Yuuri, and they watch the lights in Hasetsu blink on and off under the twinkling stars of a clear night sky.

*

**Victor to Sergei**

a lonely apartment

the sound of hungry seagulls on a frozen beach

the view from the top of a podium

overnight flights halfway across the world

green tea with milk

powdered sugar on cookies

the scent of salt on skin

ramen flavored with laughter

the sound of hungry seagulls on a warm summer beach

the view from the top of a mountain

the click of a pair of glasses being folded and placed in a lover’s hand

overnight flights halfway across the world

an apartment filled with everything important

**Sergei to Victor**

Ah.

All right then.

I’ll see what I can do.

*

Every day, Yuuri notices the shift Victor makes from coach to competitor.

It doesn’t take long for Victor to return to physical fitness. Before the end of their first week of training together, Victor can keep up with Yuuri on their morning runs. He jogs in place while Nishio-san pinches his cheeks and tells him about her bunions, and then he demands that Yuuri give him the heavier pack. He matches Yuuri’s stomach crunches one by one, and adds a few more just in case.

He lands all his doubles perfectly. He lands almost all the triples. And the first time he tries a quad again, it's just a few days before they leave for Nationals. It’s a quad toe loop, probably the easiest of the bunch, and one Victor’s been able to land since first stepping on the ice as a senior skater.

He lands it: perfectly, seamlessly – but not effortlessly.

Every day, Victor spends at least an hour on his phone talking to Yakov: about all the various red tape involved in returning to competitive skating, about bringing Yuuri to Russia, about the infinite small details that Yuuri can’t even fathom. Yuuri hears so much Russian that it doesn’t even register anymore. Little by little, he starts to recognize names and words and places.

Marina Vasilievna, Victor’s housekeeper, who will open the apartment and purchase them a week’s worth of groceries to start them off.

Yubileyny, which the fanboy in Yuuri recognizes as the name of the sports complex where Victor trained.

Sergei, the genius composer who is already working on a demo of Victor’s short program.

Valentina Maratovna, the mysterious woman who is head of the Figure Skating Federation of Saint Petersburg, and according to Victor, has been working non-stop to ensure their transition to Russia is smooth and uncomplicated. Yuuri imagines a smaller, softer version of Lilia Baranovskaya.

Every day brings new progress in their plans. Yuuri has no idea how much Victor’s phone bill is going to be. He probably doesn’t want to know.

“Yuuri!” sings Victor. “It’s all arranged, you just need to send your passport to the Russian Embassy in Tokyo! We can pick it up while we’re there for Nationals!”

“Great,” says Yuuri. “I was thinking – do you think I could try a ‘Tano in my Free Skate, like Yurio?”

Another day:

“Yuuri! Yakov told Yulia about you, she’s very excited to meet you! She taught me ballet when I was small. You aren’t allowed to exchange stories about me.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, already thinking of half a dozen. “I have an idea to make my step sequence in Eros more challenging….”

And after that:

“Yuuri!” Victor slings his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Marina Vasilievna says the apartment is just as I left it. She’s even purchased new sheets for the bed.”

“Ah,” says Yuuri, feeling the blood go straight to his ears and the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I was thinking – maybe I should order new skates before we go? Mine might last to the end of the season, but better safe than sorry?”

Yuuri doesn’t think Victor’s aware of the shift. Most of the time, Yuuri thinks he’s imagining it anyway – of course Victor would be preoccupied off the ice with the upcoming move.

On the ice is different. It’s evident in the first few moments after they’ve warmed up, when Victor prepares to make his first jump. Yuuri watches the way Victor leans into his skates, building up speed, already focused on the rotations and the placement of his feet. Yuuri’s presence is pushed back so far in Victor’s mind, Yuuri thinks he could strip down naked and Victor wouldn’t notice.

The first few days, Yuuri watches like he’s still the student, like Victor’s demonstrating a technique for him to learn.

Now, though – with only a few days left before Nationals begin, it feels more like Victor is a rinkmate than a coach. Yuuri can’t help but feel the perceived distance as keenly as if it actually existed.

 _It’s probably just me, though_ , thinks Yuuri. _Celestino was like that, too – he’d demonstrate something and then expect me to follow through on my own. But he had Phichit and J.J. and Shauna and everyone else to coach, too. I’ve been lucky, having Victor all to myself. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have to share a coach with someone else. And sharing my coach with my coach? That’s a whole other story._

“Yuuri!” calls Victor. “Tell me what you think of this step sequence.”

Victor moves across the ice, his feet twisting and gliding, his arms opening as he surges forward. He spins, he twists, and there’s a determined concentration on his face that probably won’t be there when the sequence has been learned, but already Yuuri can tell – it’s a joyful sequence, one of discovery and hope and anticipation.

“I love it,” he says honestly, when Victor skates back to him, his chest heaving, his face bright. “It’s for your short, right?”

“Of course! I’ll worry about the free skate when we get home.”

_Home._

For Victor, that’s Saint Petersburg.

It hits Yuuri harder than any fall out of a jump ever could.

“That’s late,” he manages to say lightly. “The Europeans are at the end of January. Will that be enough time for you to learn it?”

“Plenty of time,” says Victor. He’s so clearly confident that Yuuri has to believe him. “I think a quad toe, triple toe for the combination after the step sequence.”

“Not a quad flip?” It’s a little mean - Victor hasn’t landed the quad flip in practice yet.

But it’s only a matter of time, and they both know it.

“Not in a combination,” says Victor. He taps his finger against his lips thoughtfully, eyes moving up and down Yuuri in a way that Yuuri knows isn’t lecherous, just contemplative. “But _you_. It’d be tricky to pull off in a combination, but I think you could do it.”

“Oh, no. You’re not going to re-choreograph my programs until yours are done,” says Yuuri firmly.

Victor’s still tapping his mouth. “And here I thought you were already doing that with ‘Tanos and increasingly difficult step sequences.”

Yuuri flushes. “That’s just - I’m not a choreographer, Victor! It’s just ideas.”

“Hmm. If you say so. It’s something we should consider, though. You can’t keep skating the same programs at the 4Cs or at Worlds. You’ll need to up your game if you want to remain competitive. We’ll need to look at your programs and see where we can eke out a few extra points, if you really do want to start earning those golds you owe me.”

 _And beat you at your own game_ , thinks Yuuri. He flushes even more.

_What am I thinking?!? I can’t beat Victor on his own ice!_

_Especially if he gets all his quads back…_

“After you’re done with your programs,” says Yuuri firmly. “The Europeans are two weeks before the 4Cs. I’ve got plenty of time.”

“As long as you keep your focus, yes,” says Victor agreeably. “It’ll be something to work on once we’re home. Now, let’s see if I can do the combination after the step sequence.”

“Sure,” says Yuuri.

Victor throws himself back into his step sequence. His movements are large and a little bit messy, his arms all over the place, his lines sloppy and far less sophisticated than Yuuri knows he’s capable of doing.

It’s still easy to see how beautiful it’ll be when it’s done. Yuuri watches the joy on Victor’s face, hidden under the concentration.

_Of course, Victor would call Saint Petersburg home. It’s where he grew up. His apartment’s there. His friends are there. His entire life until last April was there. He told me once that he thought he’d never leave._

_I guess it’ll be my home now, too._

*

It snows the day before they leave for Nationals, which is only problematic because there is a veritable _mountain_ of boxes Victor has packed with his belongings to take to the post office. It’s one of the few things they’d planned to do that day.

Everything else is arranged. Makkachin’s paperwork is complete. Yuuri’s passport and his Russian visa are waiting to be picked up at the embassy in Tokyo. In Saint Petersburg, there’s a refrigerator full of food and drink and a bed that’s been freshly made with brand-new sheets just for them.

“We’ll mail the boxes for you in the morning,” Hiroko reassures them at lunch. “Takeshi can drive them.”

“If they clear his road,” says Yuuri. “Yuuko says they’re completely blocked in; she can’t even get to the Ice Castle to open it.”

“We have a key,” says Victor, reaching for another orange. “I really did want to go and practice my choreography.”

“Vitya, there’s half a meter of snow out there!” protests Yuuri.

Victor shrugs. “So? It’s snow. We won’t melt.”

“No, we’ll _freeze_.”

“Not in your new coat,” says Victor, entirely unsympathetic. “There’s snow in Saint Petersburg for half the year.”

“ _What_?”

“The disadvantage to not living in the skaters’ dorms is having to commute through the snow,” says Victor as he finishes peeling his orange. “But you’ll get used to it.”

“If I don’t turn into an icicle first,” grumbles Yuuri.

Victor drops half the orange next to Yuuri’s miso. “We’ll pack your room when we come back this afternoon. You haven’t even started, _solnyshko_.”

“I don’t have much to pack!” protests Yuuri. “It can all go in my suitcases.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Victor. “There’s plenty of room in my apartment, you can bring whatever you like.”

“An elephant,” says Yuuri, feeling cheeky.

“Every room needs an elephant,” agrees Victor, and he eats his half of the orange in one bite.

*

Victor’s room is empty.

The walls are bare, the shelves are empty, and the only clothes in the closet are the ones Victor plans to pack when they return from Nationals. A heavy coat for the colder winters (“you’ll be glad for the heavier coat, Yuuri”), his skates (“I have other pairs, but these are special, I wore these when I skated with you in Spain”), the practice clothes that he’s worn to threads (“I didn’t think I’d need them when I came! I should really replace them, but they’re so comfy!”).

Once Victor and Yuuri have boarded the plane for Saint Petersburg, Victor’s room will return to being storage, unless Toshiya has his way and makes it into another guest room. For now, it’s more of a holding area than it is a room, which is probably why Victor spends as much time in Yuuri’s room as possible.

Yuuri’s room is not quite as empty.

“So,” says Victor brightly as he assembles a moving box. “What shall we pack first?”

“Clothes. Maybe some books?” says Yuuri doubtfully. “Honestly, Vitya, it can all go with us. There’s really not that much.”

“Don’t be shy, Yuuri, you don’t want to worry about not having room in your suitcases when it’s time to leave for the airport,” says Victor. He falls to his knees to start pulling things out of drawers. “Your swimsuits! Your summer things! Better to send them ahead, _da_?”

“I guess. I didn’t send anything ahead to Detroit.”

“That was different,” says Victor, quickly moving through the storage boxes under Yuuri’s bed.

He’s getting dangerously close to the space under Yuuri’s bed where a certain stash of posters is still sitting.

“Um… you don’t have to pack for me, Vitya—” Yuuri says nervously.

“Better to send it and not want it than not send it and need it,” says Victor firmly. “Wow, Yuuri! It’s your blue tie! Let’s burn it.”

“Victor!” hisses Yuuri, wondering if the _Victor_ instead of _Vitya_ will be enough to snap Victor out of his determination.

No such luck. “A macroeconomics textbook? Maybe I should let you handle my money.”

“Ha,” says Yuuri. “For all you know, I flunked that class.”

Victor sits up, oddly fascinated. “Did you?”

Yuuri grins with relief. “No.”

Victor laughs – and then goes back to unearthing the objects under Yuuri’s bed. Yuuri groans and falls back on the mattress in defeat.

“Let’s at least wait until we’re done before we bid your bed goodbye, Yuuri!”

Yuuri covers his face with his pillow and screams into it.

“Now, what’s this?”

 _ Chikushō _ _!_

“No!” shrieks Yuuri, throwing the pillow across the room and sitting up just as Victor pulls out…

A poster of himself, arms outstretched, long hair flowing behind him.

“Oh,” says Victor. “Oh, Yuuri.” He glances between the poster of himself wearing the Eros costume, and then up to Yuuri, who isn’t sure if he’s dying of mortification or the fact that all his blood is now flooding his cheeks. “Yuu-ri. Tell the truth. Did you choose this costume for Eros because you jerked off to it as a teenager?”

“ _Oh. My. God._ ” Yuuri falls over to his side. He’s sure he’s twitching.

“I thought katsudon was an odd choice,” muses Victor, holding the poster up and turning it this way and that way, as if he’s trying to look for evidence. Which is something Yuuri’s going to stop thinking about, immediately.

(He was never that messy, anyway.)

“I’m going to die,” moans Yuuri.

“I’m going to pack these,” says Victor.

Yuuri shoots up so fast that he nearly ends up on his other side.

“No, you’re not! _Put those back_.”

“But _Yuu-ri_!”

“They’re a part of my childhood,” says Yuuri. He manages to snatch the rest of the posters (and framed prints, and the bobblehead, and the keychains, and oh _God_ , he forgot about the stuffed plushie) from Victor before shoving the entire mess back under the bed. “They stay here. In my childhood room. You can make fun of them when we come back to visit.”

Victor’s eyes are dancing. “Just one?”

“No.”

“A _little_ one. Please?”

“I’m not bringing posters of you to Russia,” Yuuri scolds him. “Why would I want to, when I’ve got the real thing?”

Victor brightens immediately.

“Wow,” he says, so pleased that Yuuri wants to breathe a sigh of relief. Instead, Yuuri just slides into Victor’s arms so that he can look down on Victor’s upturned, bright face. It’s almost worth his embarrassment at being found out. “You’re coming home with me.”

“Yeah,” agrees Yuuri. He’s so relieved, he doesn’t hesitate when Victor pulls him down for a kiss.

Or when Victor’s hand slips under Yuuri’s shirt to press against the base of his spine.

Or when Victor starts kissing down Yuuri’s neck, whispering words that Yuuri’s long since come to recognize, even if he’s still not sure what they mean:

 _Kak mne povezlo_ while Victor slowly pushes Yuuri back onto the floor. He cradles Yuuri’s head in his hands, warms Yuuri’s cheeks with his breath.

 _Ty svodish’ menya s uma_ while Victor moves his kisses from Yuuri’s neck to curve of his shoulders, to the soft skin under his arms, to the thatch of hair in his armpit. Yuuri giggles and squirms as his stomach soars, lighter than air.

 _Mne nuzhno_ while Victor settles himself between Yuuri’s legs. Skin to skin, hot and heavy and _his_. Yuuri muffles his cries into his forearm.

 _Chtoby ty byl ryadom_ while Victor thrusts with gentle, rocking motions. Yuuri’s hand circles their cocks, holding them together between their stomachs.

 _Vsegda_ in the moment before Victor comes, his voice breaking on the last sound. He is taut, trembling oh-so-slightly. Yuuri doesn’t tumble after him until he feels the wet warmth on his hand… and then he’s gone, too.

Yuuri’s still riding the blissful blank that always follow an orgasm when he hears the words on Victor’s exhale:

“ _Lyublyu tebya_.”

Victor heaves from the exertion; his eyes are closed and he’s slumped a bit to the side now, his head pillowed on Yuuri’s arm. It can’t possibly be comfortable, not with both of them naked – and now Yuuri can’t remember _how_ they’re naked, because he swears he had no intention of taking the moment as far as it went – but he doubts Victor isn’t going to want to move just yet.

Victor kisses Yuuri’s arm, shifting again to hold him close.

“Love you too,” Yuuri whispers back. Victor smiles, eyes still closed, and pulls Yuuri in for a tighter hug. Their kiss is gentle and sweet.

They move up to the bed and reposition under the covers; Victor doesn’t let go of Yuuri for a single second. Yuuri is nearly asleep when he sees the poster, still on the floor next to the bed. It’s curled up halfway, but he can see Victor’s long hair, an outstretched arm, the silver accents on the costume that now belongs to _him_.

It’s strange, seeing the black-and-grey mesh on a young Victor. Knowing that right then, that very same costume is cleaned and folded up in Yuuri’s suitcase, ready for Nationals. Knowing that Victor himself is ten years older, naked and pressed up against Yuuri’s back, where he’s softly kissing the nape of Yuuri’s neck.

Twelve-year-old Yuuri wouldn’t have known he’d even want that, much less what to do with it.

Sixteen-year-old Yuuri wouldn’t have known, but he definitely would have had some ideas.

Twenty-four-year-old Yuuri is going to leave the posters behind and follow the man in the bed with him to Russia. He’ll train on the same ice as the kid in the poster, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll be the closest Yuuri can ever get to understanding how Victor ticks, and why Victor might have fallen in love with him.

Yuuri’s next breath stutters in his chest. He’s shaking a little bit, despite the comfortable warmth in the too-narrow bed.

“Cold?” murmurs Victor.

“No.” Yuuri lets out a long breath and grips Victor’s forearm while he closes his eyes and wills the world to stop spinning quite so fast.

Victor’s arms tighten. “We’ll come home this summer,” he whispers to Yuuri. “Better to leave them here, waiting for us.”

Yuuri makes a noise in the back of his throat. He can feel the tears welling up already, hear Victor’s soft _shhh_ in his ear.

_Home._

“Okay,” he says, his voice breaking a little bit, and he lets Victor kiss him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chikushō (Japanese) – Shit  
> Kak mne povezlo (Russian) – How am I so lucky?  
> Ty svodish’ menya s uma (Russian) – You drive me wild  
> Mne nuzhno… Chtoby ty byl ryadom… Vsegda (Russian) – I need you near me always. (Victor says this in three phrases, but it was always meant to be one statement.)  
> Lyublyu tebya (Russian) – Love you


	5. The Japanese Nationals Short Program

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Japanese Nationals are a case of me futzing with the real world again. They haven't been held in Tokyo since 2005; I've placed them there for the sole purpose of the boys being able to pick up Yuuri's Russian visa with ease.

The media is a circus.

Reporters, photographers, and cameramen are scattered on the sidewalk outside the official hotel in Tokyo and in the lobby, milling around looking for potential victims. Yuuri notices them and holds his breath, but Victor glides right by them, as if completely oblivious to their open notepads, telephoto lenses, and extra-large television cameras. For the first couple of minutes, while Yuuri and Victor cross the lobby to check into their hotel room, Yuuri thinks they’ve managed to go unnoticed. After all, the reporters are busy talking to one of the other skaters. It’s not as though Yuuri is all that interesting, apart from his unorthodox engagement to Victor Nikiforov.

“There he is!”

 _There who is?_ wonders Yuuri, looking around the lobby. A film star, maybe?

And then he is surrounded by reporters, all holding recording devices, notepads, cameras, and microphones.

“Katsuki Yuuri-san! How do you feel about your coach’s return to skating?”

“Are you worried about competing against him on the ice?”

“Is it true you’re moving to Saint Petersburg to coach under Yakov Feltsman?”

Yuuri isn’t even sure which question to answer first. “I – um… haven’t even checked into my room yet?”

“Yuuri will not train under Yakov,” says Victor, throwing an arm over Yuuri’s shoulders. “ _I_ will train under Yakov, and Yuuri will train under me.”

“Victor! Are you worried about training at the same time as coaching?”

“Of course not! Yuuri is an extremely talented skater. He has only ever needed a nudge in the correct direction. I am sure that he is going to flourish in the next few months and make Japan proud by bringing home a world championship.”

Yuuri is barely conscious of his mouth dropping open. _Wait, does Victor think I can actually beat him?_

Of course the reporters don’t notice - they’re all still too focused on Victor. “What about you, Victor?”

Victor laughs. “Oh, I plan to flourish and bring home a world championship, too.”

The reporters laugh, though there’s a few snickers mixed in there, too.

“Victor, you can’t--” starts Yuuri, but Victor squeezes his shoulder in warning.

_Oh. He’s right. The performance has begun. He can’t admit that he’s worried; he’s got to show confidence or the other skaters will eat him alive._

_Oh. I’m one of the other skaters._

_ Oh. _

“Victor!” Yuuri recognizes Morooka. “It’s obvious you’re not skating in Russian Nationals. Have you received confirmation that Russia will still send you to Worlds in April?”

“Of course. I have the TES scores from last season, so as far as the ISU is concerned, my eligibility is secure. The FFKK will certainly include me on the roster, especially if I perform well at the Europeans next month,” says Victor cheerfully.

There’s a confused pause from the reporters, before one finally speaks.

“The Europeans?” says the reporter. “But the Russians announced their roster about two hours ago. They’re sending Plisetsky, Popovich, and Starikov. You’re not even listed as an alternate.”

Victor’s arm presses down on Yuuri’s shoulders. A cold spike goes straight through Yuuri’s limbs.

“I’m sure it’s an oversight,” says Victor, just as smooth and cheerful as before.

There’s another few questions, and then Victor excuses them both and steers Yuuri to the elevators. The moment the doors close behind them, Yuuri turns to Victor.

Victor’s shoulders slump a little bit, but he stares straight ahead at the numbers that creep slowly upward as the elevator climbs.

“Victor?” asks Yuuri, cautious.

Victor doesn’t look at him. “An oversight. I’ll call Yakov and confirm later.”

“The Nationals haven’t started yet, he’d probably answer his phone if you called him now…”

“Later,” repeats Victor, his jaw tense, as the doors open.

“KATSUKI YUURI-SAN!” shrieks Minami Kenjirō.

Yuuri tries really, _really_ hard not to jerk in surprise or take an involuntary step backwards. Minami’s overwhelming excitement, however, practically bowls Yuuri over. The kid _leaps_ into the elevator and leans excitedly toward Yuuri, who pulls back just to keep space between them.

“I hoped I would see you here again, isn’t this the most exciting thing, we’re in the same hotel! _Aaaaaahhhhh_!” Minami squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his hands in utter excitement as he squeals.

Yuuri glances over at Victor, who doesn’t seem to be of any help whatsoever. The tension is still in his jaw and his shoulders, but there’s a slight smile on his face that wasn’t there before, as if he can’t help but be amused at Minami’s enthusiasm.

 _Well… at least Minami’s pulling Victor out of whatever mood the reporters put him into_. _I can try to be nice in exchange for that_.

“Hi, Minami-kun,” says Yuuri. He almost regrets the honorific; Minami seems to melt right in front of him.

“I heard about your engagement it’s so amazing and I knew from the minute I saw both of you at Regionals that there was something between you—”

“Well, actually,” says Yuuri, rubbing the back of his neck, “there wasn’t anything until after the Cup of China—”

“—did your parents tell you I watched the Grand Prix final at Yu-topia with them I was the head cheerleader you skated so beautifully Otabek was _robbed_ —”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” says Yuuri, already exhausted. How on earth is Minami even _breathing_?

“—but to hear you’re _engaged_ I can’t wait to see you skate those programs for Victor-san now, it’s going to be such a privilege to lose to you here – AND YOU!”

Minami turns his full force onto Victor. Minami’s a head shorter than Yuuri, but that doesn’t seem to matter a bit. He balances on his toes and pokes his finger into Victor’s chest with a fiery determined glare that would probably scare Yuuri if Minami could manage to wear it on the ice.

If Minami was all excitement with Yuuri – he’s _vicious_ with Victor.

“You better take care of Katsuki Yuuri-san and don’t you even _think_ about hurting him or breaking his heart because Yuuri-san has _fans_ and people who _loved_ him long before you showed up and he deserves all the fantastic things in the world because he is _wonderful_ and you can go back to skating if you want to but you better not let it destroy Yuuri-san or we will _end you_ —”

 _“Minami-kun_!” shrieks Yuuri, mortified.

Victor’s smile has shifted from amusement to something else. Yuuri knows that smile. It’s the smile he wears when he’s irritated but doesn’t want to show it. When Yurio is being his own brand of teenaged terrible. Seeing it focused on Minami is almost disconcerting, especially since Minami is looking out for _Yuuri_.

“Of course,” Victor says as the door opens again. “Thank you for the warning. We have to go now. Goodbye!”

Victor takes Yuuri by the hand and pulls him out of the elevator. His grip is tight, and he doesn’t stop walking until they’ve reached their room.

“Wow,” says Yuuri, while Victor fumbles with the key card. “I keep forgetting that Minami only operates at 174%.”

“He reminds me of you,” says Victor as the door opens. His voice is much calmer now, but there’s still a thin edge of irritation that Yuuri can’t help but notice.

“I don’t think I was ever _that_ bad.”

“He probably has posters of you plastered on his bedroom wall,” says Victor, going into the room and dropping his suitcase on the bed. “I hear that’s a popular thing for young skaters to do, put posters of their idols on their walls.”

Yuuri is suddenly reminded of Victor’s immediate assumption when he’d found the posters of himself in Yuuri’s bedroom – and then what he’s insinuating about Minami’s obsession with Yuuri. “Oh, God. Please, please, never bring that image up again. Ever.”

Victor chuckles. It’s almost a relief. “I promise. I doubt it's what you’re thinking; he has a girlfriend in the ladies’ singles.”

“Minami-kun? A _girlfriend?_ He’s _twelve_.”

“He’s seventeen. I don’t understand the attraction with the teeth, but I suppose it takes all kinds,” continues Victor. “There’s a practice skate this evening, but I think we should have dinner and call it an early night. What do you think?”

“Uh… I guess?” says Yuuri, still trying to scrub from his brain the image of either Minami with a girlfriend, or Minami with posters of Yuuri in his room.

“Right,” says Victor, clapping his hands together. “Let’s hang up your costumes so they don’t wrinkle and go somewhere. I feel like sushi, does that sound good? It’s much better here than in Saint Petersburg, I should get my fill before we leave.”

Yuuri’s stomach twists. He’s not entirely sure if it’s the idea of raw fish before a competition, or the reminder that in a few days, he’ll be leaving Japan behind again. He swallows hard. “Maybe not before a competition.”

“Plenty of time later,” says Victor, undeterred. “Let’s just wander and see what we find, okay?”

The lobby is quiet – most of the reporters have found other prey elsewhere, or maybe they’ve moved on to the practice rink.

Most.

“Katsuki Yuuri-san!” calls Morooka Hisashi from across the lobby. Of all the reporters who could call out for Yuuri just then, Morooka is the least threatening. Yuuri feels himself relaxing, even if he can tell that Victor is tensing up just behind him. “Are you going to the practice rink?”

“Hi, Morooka-san,” says Yuuri politely. “No, we’re going to have an early dinner. I can practice tomorrow.”

Morooka nods. “Of course. The competition shouldn’t be any problem for you. Your closest competitor’s best scores are still ten points below yours. With your performances this year, you’re a lock for gold.”

“Well,” says Yuuri, a bit sheepish, “I probably won’t get another world-record high score. Anything’s possible, I guess.”

“Don’t be so down on yourself,” scolds Morooka. It’s so much like their normal banter that Yuuri laughs.

_Besides, I’m not being down on myself - I only skated that well at the final because of the argument Victor and I had beforehand. I don’t want to argue with him at every competition, even if it’s the only way to get on the podium._

“I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you in Barcelona,” continues Morooka. “I am very much looking forward to congratulating you after your win here.”

Yuuri flushes. “That’s… we’ll see what happens.”

Morooka turns to Victor and gives him a short bow. “Nikiforov-san. Good luck on your return to the ice. I hope you can settle the issue with the Europeans quickly.”

“Thank you,” says Victor, polite and cheerful in his old stiff way. “I’m sure it’s settled already.”

“Enjoy your dinner,” says Morooka.

“Everyone thinks I’m going to get the gold,” says Yuuri, watching Morooka leave the lobby.

Victor looks at him. “Of course you are. You’re the best skater in Japan.”

Yuuri has no idea what to say to that.

*

**minamiken**

[Image: Minami standing in front of the official hotel]

All checked in and ready for competition! Ran into this year's gold medalist #katsukiyuuri already. He and VN are so cute!!!

897 likes

 **jpnskatrfan63** You didn't tag @v-nikiforov!

 **minamiken** OMG NO WHY DID YOU DO THAT HE'S GONNA SEE THIS!!! ::gasp-emoji::

 **v-nikiforov** Hi, Minami! Davai!

 **minamiken** *dies*

*

It’s still early when they return to the hotel, but Yuuri, exhausted and clearly stressing about something he won’t share with Victor, is asleep within half an hour of locking the door.

Victor’s not tired. He sits up against the headboard on the bed, absently watching as Yuuri sleeps. It’s comfortable, and Victor _could_ sleep if he just closed his eyes… but he can’t stop thinking about the unexpected questions from the press that afternoon.

Or the way he’d used the last power bars on his phone to confirm what they’d told him.

He’s not on the Russian roster for Europeans. It’s as if the FFKK isn’t even acknowledging Victor’s return to skating at all.

Victor’s not sure how he feels about that. He supposes he should be angry… initially, he _was_ angry.

The more he thinks about it, though… the more he’s not sure _what_ to feel.

 _If you leave now, you’ll never be able to come back!_ Yakov’s words, shouted and ignored as just another threat from a coach who thrived on them.

 _You presume too much, Vitya_. Yakov again, this time over a scratchy and echoing international call. _You think you are still as adored as you were a year ago? You think you can come back and everything will be exactly as it was?_

Yuuri sleeps curled on his side, as if trying to protect himself in sleep. For all the tension that drives him forward, though, he’s relaxed in slumber.

 _I know it won’t be like it was before_ , thinks Victor. _In fact, I’m counting on it being very, very different._

Victor waits until he’s absolutely sure that Yuuri is asleep before he slips out of the bed, unplugs his cell phone from the charger, and steps into the bathroom.

The light from a dozen designer lightbulbs is too bright. Even with the fancy grey tiling, Victor has to close his eyes against the glare. He sits on the closed toilet seat and stares at his phone. The clock reads 11:45pm, but Victor focuses on the lock-screen of Makkachin standing on Hasetsu Bay’s beach, soaked to the skin.

That had been such a good day. The last day of summer weather. Victor had already started to think maybe his obsession with Yuuri wasn’t just an obsession. That it might be something more, if he’d allow it to be.

That was the day he’d decided to allow it. And everything else followed from there.

It’s the middle of the night in Tokyo, but Moscow is six hours behind, so for Yakov, it’s early evening on the second day of competition. Mila would have skated her short program that afternoon. Victor can look up the scores if he wants to see how she’s doing. He can look up the scores for Yura and Georgi, too; they’d have skated their short programs the day before.

 _You know what this means for them,_ Yakov had said in one of their endless conversations during the previous week. _Your return. Their fight is going to be much more vicious now._

Victor knows. He does remember the days early in his career when he had to fight for every landing, convince not only the judges but himself that the ice belonged to him.

He can’t fool himself: it’s like that now, struggling to relearn all the things he didn’t realize he forgot. He doesn’t want to admit that Yakov was right, but…

Victor takes a breath to steady himself, brings up Yakov’s number, and presses _call_. The phone rings twice before Yakov picks up.

“Vitya,” warns Yakov. “I know why you are calling, and this is not the time.”

“When will it be the time, Yakov? It’s never the time. You’ve been deflecting me about the Europeans for the last week and a half.”

“You don’t need the Europeans. The FFKK will send you to Worlds without them.”

“I’m not calling you about Worlds.”

“You _should_ be calling me about Worlds.”

“I need to skate in the Europeans, Yakov.”

“Do you have a free program?”

Victor grimaces and rubs the butt of his hand into his eyes. “No.”

“Then that’s your answer. You want to skate in the Europeans? You show me a free skate worth sending. Your student is skating in his Nationals tomorrow, and now is the time to concentrate on his career, not yours. Unless you would rather a repeat of his performance from last year? Japan doesn’t send eleventh place to Worlds, Vitya. Of course, if his season ends in the next few days, that would simplify matters for your return, wouldn’t it?”

“Yuuri’s going to do fine,” Victor grits out. “He’s going to win gold. I know it.”

“If you say. I will be watching his performance very closely.”

Victor’s heart turns over in his chest.

_Yakov only watches the ones he thinks are worth his time. I might say we were assigned to each other, but we all know the truth: he chooses his students himself, every one of us._

_And it doesn’t matter who your coach is – if Yakov Feltsman wants you, you’re his._

“He’s not your student, Yakov, he’s mine!” hisses Victor. “You can’t have him.”

“Good,” says Yakov, sounding oddly pleased. “Now give _him_ that fire, and we’ll see. _Goodnight_!”

Yakov disconnects the call. Victor resists the urge to throw his phone at the door.

He leans back against the toilet and concentrates on keeping his breaths even.

_Yuuri’s going to Worlds. I need the Europeans, to make sure I’m ready to give Yuuri the competition he needs to win the gold._

_Yakov said if I have a free skate… I need to find my free skate. I need to land the rest of my quads. I need to be the best I’ve always been, for Yuuri._

_No, that’s not right. I need to be better._

He’s probably not going to sleep that night.

In Hasetsu, he could slip out of the bed and take the key to the Ice Castle. Go and skate a few laps, run over the choreography he’s created for his short program, listen to the demo music Sergei sent only a few days before.

Or go over Yuuri’s programs, try to find alternate choreography that will not only challenge Yuuri further, but still retain the tone and complement the music. Give Yuuri the options he’ll need in order to really provide a challenge to JJ and Christophe and Otabek and Yura.

He’s done it more nights than not. He doesn’t have the luxury of time to waste. Yuuri’s never the wiser, even if he looks at Victor like he knows why there are dark circles beneath his eyes.

Victor breathes, feels his heart slow. It’s cold in the bathroom, and the robe he’s wearing isn’t keeping him as warm as Yuuri could in their oversized bed.

If he’s going to lie awake all night and worry, he might as well be comfortable for it.

Victor turns off the bathroom light, plugs his phone back into the charger. He slips back into the bed with Yuuri, who hasn’t moved very much since Victor left it. He’s on his stomach, right hand stretched out to Victor. The ring on Yuuri’s finger glimmers softly in the darkness.

The ring makes Victor smile.

_I can’t wait to compete against you. I can’t wait to see you standing on the podium with me. It’s only a question of which of us stands where. Anyone who doubts that I would do anything to jeopardize your career for the sake of my own does not understand what you mean to me._

_You’re going to Worlds, solnyshko. I’m going to make sure you get there - and then I’ll have time to worry about me._

“ _Spokoinoi nochi, moy Yuuri_ ,” whispers Victor. He watches Yuuri for a lifetime before he falls asleep.

*

“I’ve been thinking,” says Victor casually during the morning practice. “You should turn the quad flip into a triple.”

Yuuri stares at him, his water bottle halfway to his lips. He wonders if he’s somehow jumped back in time to the regional championships, or if it’s just that Victor seems determined to keep Yuuri from giving his all to competitions in his home country. “Huh?”

“You don’t need it,” continues Victor. “Morooka had a good point yesterday. Your technical score is easily ten points above your closest competitor. You could very easily win gold without the quad flip, particularly since it’s still shaky even in practice. No offense to your countrymen, but the field of men’s singles here is much wider than it is deep.”

Yuuri doesn’t even blink. “You… you don’t think I can land it today.”

“I didn’t say that. I said why take the risk of injury, when it’s not necessary?”

“That is _not_ what you said. Anyway, it might be necessary,” says Yuuri, growing a bit heated. “If I’d landed a triple instead of a quad in Barcelona, I might not even have silver.”

“And if you’d landed the quad perfectly, you’d have had gold,” counters Victor.

 _As if I don’t already know that!_ shrieks Yuuri in his head. It’s only sheer luck he doesn’t _say_ it, or maybe it's because Minami's skating nearby with figurative hearts streaming from his eyes every time he looks at Yuuri.

Yuuri presses his lips together as tightly as he can and narrows his eyes until all he can see is Victor’s moronic smiling face as he waves his suggestion away.

“Never mind. It’s not important—”

“And now you’re saying it’s not important?” exclaims Yuuri.

“I don’t want to fight,” says Victor. “I’m your coach, I’m giving you my opinion. Triple flip, not a quad.”

“Fine,” says Yuuri. He slams down the water bottle and heads back onto the ice.

For a brief, delightful moment, Yuuri thinks about trying a quad flip anyway, as the ultimate “Fuck You, Victor.” Which is something Yurio would have done without a second thought.

Instead, Yuuri does his quad sal triple toe combination and lands it perfectly.

When he glances over at Victor, he’s not surprised to see Victor grinning back at him, waving the Makkachin tissue dispenser. Exactly as if he’d planned the entire exchange.

 _I’m gonna marry that idiot one day_ , Yuuri realizes.

_If I don’t kill him first._

*

“Welcome to the Japanese National Figure Skating Championships! I am Morooka Hisashi and we are here live at Yoyogi National Gymnasium on the first day of competition with the men’s singles short program. We have seen many stunning performances today, but the most anticipated skater, Grand Prix silver medalist Katsuki Yuuri, will be coming onto the ice in the next flight of skaters. I have with me champion skater Nobunari Oda. Nobunari-san, what do you think of his chances today?”

“Morooka-san, I think he has an excellent chance of winning the championship this week. His technical difficulty is at least ten points higher than the next closest competitor, and he’s been showing stronger programs with every competition this season so far.”

“Absolutely. His short program at his last competition, the Grand Prix final, was easily the best I’ve seen all season. I think he was grossly underscored, and it ultimately cost him the gold at that event.”

“I agree, Morooka-san. It’s not much consolation that Katsuki-san wasn’t the only competitor at that competition who had scoring inconsistent with their performance.”

“The only real question today is if Katsuki-san can shake those lower-than-normal scores and turn out a stellar performance today. He’s been known to let small problems affect his concentration and derail his entire program. We’ve seen it before from him.”

“But not in some time, Morooka-san.”

“Very true, Nobunari-san.”

“Well, the final six skaters have started their warm-ups on the ice. Katsuki-san is scheduled to skate next to last in this final flight. What do you think is going through his head right now?”

*

_Oh, look, there’s Mom and Dad and everyone else. What are they wearing?_

_Wait…._

_ Are they wearing hats that look like bowls of katsudon?!?! _

_I AM NEVER INVITING THEM TO WATCH ME SKATE AGAIN._

“Yuuri,” Victor says as Yuuri skates off the ice following the warm-up. “Did you see—?”

“YES,” snaps Yuuri as he grabs the earbuds on his iPod and shoves them into his ears.

He can still hear Victor laughing behind him anyway.

*

“And that was Sugihara Yuki-san from Nagasaki, with a frankly outstanding performance! Morooka-san, can you believe that two years ago this young man could barely land a triple, and today he gave us a perfectly executed quad-triple combination?”

“I agree, he is an extremely impressive competitor. A year ago, I would have pegged him as the clear Japanese champion.”

“But not today!”

“No, not with Katsuki Yuuri’s comeback to the sport. I’m the first to admit that I have always had an eye on Katsuki-san’s career, but his progress this year under his coach, five-time world champion Victor Nikiforov, has been incredible. When I say that everyone here expects him to place first in this competition, I am not exaggerating.”

“Agreed. He’s taking the ice now, in preparation for skating his short program. And here’s the scores for Sugihara….”

*

The crowd cheers when Yuuri skates out onto the ice for a quick circle to warm up his muscles again. Yuuri’s family is waving wildly, and Minako unfurls yet another banner. It’s hard to mistake the two interlocking gold rings in the dead center of the banner, which reads, “ _Go for the gold, Yuuri!_ ”

Yuuri tries to block the noise out. He’s not entirely successful.

*

“… And Sugihara-san is currently in first place! He won’t stay there for long, will he, Morooka-san?”

“How long is Katsuki-san’s short program again?”

*

“Well,” says Yuuri to Victor, back at the boards, “at least they took off the hats.”

Victor smiles. “I may have sent Minako a text about them.”

Yuuri makes a face. “I can’t even be mad about that.”

“You’re welcome,” chuckles Victor. He picks up Yuuri’s hand from the boards and rubs the ring on Yuuri’s finger with his thumb. “I should say something coach-like now, shouldn’t I?”

“Why start now?”

“Very good point. About our rings – I think we’ll just use the same ones, yes?”

Yuuri’s eyes widen. “I… hadn’t thought about it.”

“I’m sure you’ll give us reason to start,” says Victor cheerfully – and then leans in so that his lips are nearly touching Yuuri’s ear. “Seduce everyone in this building, and you’ll bring home this ring’s big brother, I know it.”

Yuuri tries not to blush. “ _Vitya_. My parents are in the audience!”

“In that case, seduce me and only me. After all”—Victor kisses Yuuri’s ear lightly, and Yuuri lets out a squeak—“I love being seduced by you on the ice.”

“ _Katsuki-san_ ,” hisses one of the attendants, no doubt a warning about the time. Yuuri pushes away from the boards onto the ice, grateful for the cool air on his flushed cheeks. He lifts up his arms as he glides toward center ice in a spiral.

_Okay, here we go. Focus. Short program. All I have to do is skate it cleanly. Piece of cake._

_I hope._

*

“And here’s Katsuki Yuuri, skating to On Love: Eros. Every time he’s skated this program in competition this season, it’s been better and better. Let’s see what he gives us today.”

*

As soon as Yuuri reaches center ice, Victor gently touches his lips to the ring on his finger.

When he sees Yuuri do the same, he smiles.

_As long as he listens to me, and turns that last quad into a triple – it’ll be fine._

_Just get on the podium, Yuuri. That’s all you need to do. Just get on the podium and come with me to Worlds._

*

When the music begins, Yuuri’s body moves automatically.

His mind, however, is somewhere else altogether.

_I know this music so well – but it doesn’t sound the same today. I don’t feel the same! It’s one thing to say to seduce the entire audience when my parents are in it, but talking about wedding rings and gold medals! Everyone expects me to win gold here. It’s like a foregone conclusion!_

_I don’t need this kind of pressure!_

*

“Katsuki-san is off to a strong start. None of his jumps are in the first half of his program, but no one here seems to mind, because his dancing has always been so masterful.”

“That’s true, Morooka-san. Katsuki-san has always been an incredible, insightful dancer on the ice. Today is no exception, even if it doesn’t seem to have the same focus or drive as I’ve seen previously.”

“It’s well-known that he’s favored to win the men’s competition this week, and also that he’s let previous pressures impact his performance. It’s possible that we could be witnessing some of that here today.”

*

_I know the reason we’ve put all my jumps in the second half is to maximize my points and demonstrate my stamina on the ice – but for once, I wish I had at least one of them up front, just to get it over with! My heart’s pounding so hard I’m not sure I’m even in time with the music._

*

Victor grips the boards, watching, eyes only on Yuuri, as always…

But he can hear the people around him as they watch, too. Sighing, murmuring praise and joy. Every time he skates, Yuuri catches everyone’s attention and holds it fast.

Victor’s used to not understand half the conversations around him at a skating competition - but now he barely understand one word in ten. The Japanese is too fast, too muffled, too distant for him to catch much more.

“...He is...”

“...beautiful….step sequence!”

“ _Ano futari no konyaku wa baimeikoui deshou?”_

“...favorite….glad...”

“ _Eeh, sou janai yo!_ ”

 “...can’t…. free skate!”

 “ _Mite... Katsuki-san ni me ga kugizuke dayo._ ”

It’s an uneasy feeling, hearing words he understands in a sea of words he doesn’t. Knowing they’re surely talking about Yuuri –

 _Why does Japanese always sound so stressed to me?_ wonders Victor. _Is this what it’s like for Yuuri, knowing they’re talking about him, but not knowing what it is they’re saying except that it can’t be good?_

Victor puts it aside, and watches Yuuri on the ice. He’s focused and determined, every move of his arms and legs sharp and precise.

_Something’s missing, though. Technically, he’s perfect, but..._

_What’s he thinking about?_

*

“And here comes Katsuki-san’s first jump, a spread-eagle into a triple axel—”

*

_Well, here goes—_

*

Even as Yuuri skates, the conversation continues near Victor. He wants to glare at them – but he can’t take his eyes away from Yuuri.

“ _Katsuki-san ga Roshia ni hikkoshite iru no wa zannen desu ne.._ ”

“ _Dou iu imi desu ka?_ ”

Victor’s grip on the boards is so tight, his knuckles are white.

*

 _And UP_ …

*

He pops it.

*

_I… popped it?_

*

“He popped it!” swears Yakov in Moscow.

“Moron!” Yurio screams at the livestream.

*

“He popped it,” groans Christophe in Geneva.

*

“Oh, Yuuri!” moans Phichit in Bangkok.

Celestino frowns, narrowing his eyes.

*

_Oh God. I’m losing it. Just like JJ at the Final… right before he messed up every single other one of his jumps!_

*

The triplets gasp.

“He POPPED it,” they exclaim.

“Shhhhhh!” hisses Yuuko. “He’ll hear you!”

“Wasn’t that jump supposed to have more rotations?” asks Hiroko.

*

_I’m going to screw it all up, just like JJ. The only reason he got on the podium was sheer luck. I can’t count on luck!_

*

Victor’s mouth drops open. The audience gasps and lets out a cry, but Victor can’t make a sound.

It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t understand the Japanese spoken behind him. The worry and the concern matches the way his blood runs electric under his skin.

“ _Kare wa Nihon ni kaeru to choushi ga iinda. Katsu tame ni wa Nihon ni inai to ikenai no ka?_ ”

*

_This is last year’s self-destruction happening all over again – and everyone here knows it!_

*

“Yes, he did pop it! A triple axel, now a single. That’s an automatic loss of nearly seven points, Nobunari-san.”

*

_I’m going to lose the gold and Victor will be so disappointed._

*

Victor doesn’t even know he’s whispering.

“Come on, Yuuri, just hang in there…”

*

_I can’t even look at him!_

*

“Poor Yuuri,” whimpers Yuuko in the stands.

“Poor Victor,” retorts Minako. “Look at him… I think he’s going to faint!”

*

_I can’t live up to Victor’s expectations. He’s going to regret bringing me to Russia._

*

“A popped jump can shake a skater’s mindset, but it’s far worse for Katsuki-san, the skater with the glass heart. He popped a jump at the Rostelecom Cup over a month ago, and ended up missing the podium. There’s no telling whether or not he’s capable of recovering from it today.”

*

_If I fail, it’s not just going to reflect badly on him – it might screw with his mindset so much that he’d end up failing too._

*

Victor leans forward, mouth still moving.

_Get out of your head, Yuuri. Focus on the ice. Focus on the combination ahead! Forget whatever is bothering you, and focus._

*

_Then Victor’s failure would be doubly my fault._

*

“Katsuki-san’s next jump is a combination quad Salchow and triple toe loop. He’s only recently managed to land the quad Sal in competition, and it’s never been one of his stronger jumps, so this could make or break his score today.”

*

_I can’t let Victor fail because of me._

_I won’t let Victor fail because of me!_

_I have to make this next jump!_

*

“And here comes the combination….”

*

“Come on, Yuuri!”

*

“You can do it, Yuuri!”

*

“Please, Yuuri… please.”

*

_Stop thinking stop thinking STOP THINKING._

_Here comes the combination. GO._

*

“A quad Sal… and a triple toe loop! HE DID IT, HE LANDED BOTH JUMPS CLEANLY.”

*

_I… did it._

_I DID IT._

*

“YES!” shouts Phichit, pumping his fist into the air. Behind him, Celestino smiles.

*

“YUURI!!!!!” shriek the triplets. Yuuko doesn’t yell at them because she’s shouting too.

*

“Hmm,” grunts Yakov.

“Still a moron,” grumbles Yurio, relieved.

*

Christophe says nothing – he just smiles and raises his glass in a toast.

*

Victor’s still gripping the boards. His heart hammers in his chest – but he’s focused on Yuuri.

_Okay. You did it. I knew you could._

_Just… drop the quad, Yuuri. You can land a triple and still get on the podium. That’s the only thing that matters._

*

“Katsuki-san’s next jump has been a quad flip in the past, but we’ve been told that he’s planning to do a triple flip today.”

“That’s right, Nobunari-san. In terms of technical score, Katsuki-san doesn’t need the extra points a quad flip would give him in order to get on the podium, even after his popped triple axel. But if he wants to guarantee gold, he’ll need the extra edge of a perfectly executed quad flip. The problem is that if he flubs it – and falls – he could risk the podium altogether, and that would mean he doesn’t go to Worlds.”

“And he knows that – so we’ll have to see what he decides to do. Play it safe and get on the podium, or risk everything and go for the gold?”

*

_I touched the ice in Barcelona._

*

Minako can’t help it – she reaches out and grabs Yuuko’s hand.

*

_Victor wants me to drop it down to a triple…_

*

When Victor clenches his hand, he can feel the ring cut into his finger.

_You only need the podium, Yuuri. That’s the most important thing._

*

_But… I have to prove to Victor that I deserve to go to Saint Petersburg with him!_

*

“ _Yuuri_ ,” whispers Victor.

*

“A quad flip! But he touches the ice!”

“An otherwise perfectly executed jump, though.”

“Not that the crowd minds at all – they’re cheering wildly as he completes his last spin. An inspirational performance from Katsuki Yuuri, one that no one in this rink is going to be able to forget anytime soon.”

*

_I touched the ice. Again._

Yuuri’s chest heaves as he raises his arms to the cheering crowd. It’s as much muscle memory as any other move in his program, and it’s only the flapping banner that reminds him.

_Oh… Mom and Dad._

Yuuri’s thoughts are as bleary as his vision without his glasses – but when he turns to see Victor standing near the open boards, he doesn’t need either a clear head or a clear sight to know Victor doesn’t look pleased.

Yuuri makes a split-second coward’s decision and skates over to where his parents are sitting.

“Yuuri! You were wonderful!” gushes Hiroko.

“Thanks, Mom,” says Yuuri, feeling the blush rise to his cheeks. “I wasn’t, though.”

“You were supposed to do a triple flip, not a quad!” shouts one of the triplets.

“You’re gonna be in so much trouble!” sings another.

“I bet Victor spanks him!” chimes in the third.

Yuuri’s face goes so hot that he’s surprised he doesn’t sink straight down into melted ice.

“ _AXEL_!” shrieks Yuuko, going bright red.

“I better get back,” he says, and skates away as fast as he can. He can still hear Yuuko yelling as he reaches the other side of the ice, where Victor is waiting.

_Not a spanking, but… he’s not going to be happy with me. I gambled against his advice, and I lost._

Victor’s face is… so many things. Stony is probably the best way to describe the strange mix of annoyance, in the way he holds his mouth. Anger, in the way his eyes are flashing.

 _Relief_ , in the way that he hugs Yuuri tight, the moment Yuuri steps off the ice.

It’s only with Victor’s arms around him that Yuuri can feel the façade start to crack. He collapses into Victor’s arms as he begins to shake.

_Oh, god. I messed up. Again. It’s happening all over again._

“No, Yuuri. Let’s go. It’s all right.”

Yuuri isn’t sure he spoke out loud – or maybe Victor just _knows_ what he’s thinking. Then again, Yuuri’s sure the reason Victor’s coat is wet is because of his own tears.

The wait in the kiss-and-cry is never-ending, and Victor doesn’t say a word through any of it. Yuuri clutches his water bottle, arms wrapped around the first plushie someone handed him – he thinks it’s a katsudon, which might make him laugh if he wasn’t so completely beyond laughter.

_I failed. I’m going to miss the podium. That’s the end of my season, just as Victor’s is beginning. It could be a whole year before I get the chance to skate against him again._

_What if he’s not willing to wait? What if he gets injured – or I do? What if this year is the last chance I’ll ever have?_

And then the scores come in.

The gasp from the crowd echoes in the vast, vaulted rink. It bounces and repeats itself, ominously haunting, immediately followed by the low hum of several thousand voices murmuring to themselves.

“Third,” says Victor, voice icy. His arm is tight around Yuuri’s shoulders.

Third.

He’s on the podium.

For now.

The air fills with whispers and shuffles, soft exclamations of disappointment and disillusionment. It’s the weight of an entire country’s unmet expectations bearing down on Yuuri’s head. There’s applause which isn’t entirely condescending, but it sounds like every brick in the building clattering down onto Yuuri’s head to bury him in rubble.

Yuuri closes his eyes and lets himself slump against Victor’s chest. He can’t hear Victor’s heart beating through all the layers of clothes - or maybe it’s just that Victor’s heart has the same tempo as the bricks that threaten to smother Yuuri.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…._

“Yuuri. _Yuuri_.” Victor’s voice is harsh and kind and firm. “It’s all right. Time to go.”

_It’s not all right. You haven’t said a single word that matters since I stepped off the ice._

*

There’s press – of course there’s press, there’s always press, and Morooka is always front and center. They shove their microphones into his face and ask question after question. Yuuri stammers through them and offers the inane platitudes that they expect him to say, because originality is better saved for the ice than wasted on a fifteen-second clip.

_Katsuki-san, how do you feel about your program tonight?_

_What do you think caused you to pop your triple axel?_

_You planned to do a triple flip, but ended with a quad instead. Why? Do you regret making that last-minute change?_

Victor smiles all the way through the questions that are thrown his way.

_Victor! What is the plan for Yuuri’s free-skate? Are you going to advise pulling back from so many quads?_

_Are you worried that the increased difficulty in Yuuri’s programs will be too much for him?_

_With your planned return to the ice, if you both end up competing against each other at Worlds…?_

“Thank you!” says Victor brightly. It’s the smile Yuuri recognizes from when Victor is so angry that he’s beginning to shut down. “But it’s very late and Yuuri is very tired so we will answer your questions tomorrow or the next day! Have a good night, there’s a delicious ramen bar around the corner, I suggest you all go there for dinner, yes? Good. Do svidaniya, sayonara, auf wiedersehn, adios!”

And with that, he takes Yuuri by the hand and drags him out.

“Victor—”

“I _am_ tired,” says Victor, cutting Yuuri off. “So you get your bag and we’ll go back to the hotel. Wait – did your parents want to have dinner tonight?”

“No—”

“I’m sure we’ll see them tomorrow. I’ll send them a text. You get your bag, Yuuri, I need to collect the flowers and plushies for you. Is ten minutes enough time? Good. I’ll meet you here in ten minutes.”

Yuuri watches Victor march down the hall, his long coat flapping behind him.

_Oh, no. He’s so, so angry._

Yuuri takes a long breath and goes into the locker room where he’s left his bag.

“Yuuri-san!” shrieks Minami. Minami is _hugging_ him, his nose buried right under Yuuri’s ribcage. “Did you see? I’m in _the top ten_.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, a bit dazed. “Yeah. That’s… that’s great, Minami-san. Congratulations.”

Minami shoves away from him, but his eyes are narrow, focused little strips. “The way you came back and did that combination – _and then went for the quad flip_ – _that was amazing, it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life, I CAN’T WAIT FOR YOU TO DESTROY ME IN THE FREE SKATE!_ ”

Minami is practically _shaking_ him. Yuuri opens his mouth to prevent his teeth from knocking together. “Um. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Kenji-kun!” calls a voice from outside the locker room.

“Oh, that’s my coach, I gotta go, see you on Saturday, Yuuri-san!” calls Minami, and then he’s gone.

Yuuri take a breath, lets it out, and then gets his bag. His costume isn’t uncomfortable, but right now all he wants is to take it off, put on his own comfortable, well-worn clothing, and pretend that the short program never happened.

_It’s not like Minami’s never seen Eros before, either – he knows I screwed up big time. I guess I’m not surprised that he didn’t say anything, though. I could land on my head and he’d think it was the most amazing thing._

Yuuri can’t help the quirk of a smile on his lips as he loosens his laces, imagining Minami fainting in joy while Yuuri does exactly that on the ice.

_Still. It felt nice to hear it. At least someone was impressed._

The skates are finally loose enough for him to slip off – and immediately he can feel the familiar throb as blood rushes into his newly freed feet. He slowly pulls off the thin socks to put on a dry pair.

_Almost every other time I’ve left the ice, Victor’s told me exactly what I did wrong, even when I thought I had a great performance. But not this time, when everything I did was wrong. He hasn’t said a word. He must be so upset with me._

In a way, taking off Victor’s old costume is like shedding a skin that Yuuri’s still not sure he’s qualified to wear. It’s a relief to put on his own clothes, to take on the mantle of plain, boring Katsuki Yuuri again. When Yuuri looks at his reflection in the mirror – complete with his Team Japan jacket and the glasses perched on his nose – he almost recognizes the person he sees there.

_Maybe he’s just waiting until no one else can hear him. Once we’re back at the hotel, though… and we’re sharing a room. There’s nowhere for me to hide._

Victor is waiting when Yuuri comes back out, even though it hasn’t been ten minutes.

“Ready? Great, let’s go. Do you want to order room service, or we can stop somewhere and get something to eat? Are you hungry?”

“No,” says Yuuri. His stomach is in knots anyway, he doesn’t think he could eat a bite.

_I just want to get this over with. Tell me I under-rotated or that I was thinking too much or that I shouldn’t let everyone’s expectations get to me. Tell me it doesn’t matter, I’m still in a great place to get on the podium tomorrow, that’s all I need to do. Say something, please, so I can get out of my head for a minute!_

The taxi ride too long and not long enough. Yuuri is only too aware of Victor beside him, his forefinger rubbing his chin as he alternates between checking his phone for messages and watching the city pass by outside the window. Tokyo is colorful and loud and anonymous, same as it always is, but this close to the Gymnasium, the shops have posters with various skaters’ faces on them. Yuuri sees his own face in every window, arms outstretched in his free skate costume as he looks out onto the horizon.

At the hotel, Victor pays the driver with a smile and an _arigato_ , but says nothing to Yuuri. Yuuri follows him through the lobby and into the elevator, where they stand quietly next to each other. The elevator starts with a jerk and Yuuri’s stomach lurches.

Victor still says nothing. Nothing in the hallway. Nothing as he unlocks the door. Nothing as he goes into the room, shedding his coat and scarf. He’s about to slip the suit coat off as well. Yuuri, still standing by the door, his skate bag over his shoulder, can’t take it anymore.

“Victor—”

There’s a soft intake of breath from Victor; Yuuri realizes with a sinking heart that he’d forgotten to use _Vitya_.

But Victor plunges right on talking, as if he hadn’t noticed. “I’m going to order something from room service. There wasn’t much to eat at the arena and I don’t want to sleep on an empty stomach—”

“No,” says Yuuri, miserable and aching. His fingers clench reflexively on his bag strap.

_Why is it suddenly so hard to talk to you?_

“You should eat something too. Or you’ll wake up in the middle of the night.”

“I know, just….” Yuuri exhales through his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut.

_Why won’t you let me talk?_

“You need a good night’s sleep—"

Yuuri explodes. “That’s not what you’re supposed to be saying right now!”

Victor turns to Yuuri slowly. “What should I be saying?”

Yuuri flushes, but he can’t stop now. “Tell me I’m stupid—”

Victor shakes his head. “No.”

“—Tell me I shouldn’t have gone for the quad.”

Victor shrugs. “You shouldn’t have gone for the quad. I already told you this.”

Yuuri hears him – but now he can’t stop the words from spilling out. “I _know_ I shouldn’t have tried it, I know I didn’t need it—”

“Actually, at that point, you probably did,” says Victor, and Yuuri grips his bag.

“That’s not… _that’s not helping!_ ”

Victor sighs and rubs his face. “What do you want me to say, Yuuri? You’ve said everything yourself, you clearly do not need me to tell you things you already know. I’m tired. You’re tired. We should eat and have a good night’s sleep before resuming practice tomorrow.”

Yuuri stares at him. “That’s… that’s _it_? I just about ruin my chances at getting on the podium, much less getting gold – and you don’t even care enough to _shout_ about it?”

Victor crosses the room in three steps – and then he’s so close to Yuuri that Yuuri can see the way his jaw clenches. His hands are tight on Yuuri’s biceps, fingers digging in just shy of painfully.

_Oh, God, he’s angry. Now he’ll shout._

But Victor doesn’t. He squeezes his eyes shut, bows his head, and hangs onto Yuuri’s arms like it’s the only thing keeping him steady. Yuuri’s hands tingle as the blood flow is slowly cut off. Victor breathes through his nose while his jaw clenches, and Yuuri can’t take his eyes away from him, his heart thundering in his chest.

When Victor finally speaks – eyes still closed, words fighting their way out of his mouth – his voice is harsh. Pained. Desperate.

“The only thing that matters is that you get to Worlds. That’s it. Why would you _risk_ that, Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s heart slams into his stomach. He can barely breathe, watching as Victor slowly tries to keep himself from falling apart in front of him. “Victor. _Vitya_ —”

“ _No_. I don’t want to hear it,” says Victor. He lets go of Yuuri; with the pressure of Victor’s hands gone, the blood rushes through the veins in his arms in a tingling, warm wave. Victor turns away, head still bowed, and crosses the room again. “It doesn’t matter. You made your choice to try the quad. I’ll support that choice, even if I don’t agree with it. That’s my job as your coach.”

Yuuri’s heart _hurts_. “It’s _my_ job to give the best performance I can, Victor.”

“And you think what you did today was your best?”

“No! But – I wanted it to be. I _needed_ it to be. Don’t you see? I can’t… I have to get the gold.”

Victor shakes his head wildly. “Is this about me marrying you? Yuuri, you don’t need me to tell you this. I will marry you whether or not you have a gold medal around your neck. I love you.”

The tears that have been bubbling up in Yuuri’s chest break; he hunches over, letting them fall.

Before he can let out much more than a single cry, Victor’s arms are around him again – this time comforting, warm and strong. Yuuri lets Victor pull him into the hug, his face pressed up against Victor’s coat lapel.

“Oh, Yuuri,” groans Victor. Yuuri can feel the kisses, despite the gel in his hair. “I thought you knew. We’ll get married tomorrow, if that means you’ll stop making stupid decisions on the ice that you think I want you to make!”

“Are you really that stupid?” Yuuri steps out of the embrace – it’s not so easy, because Victor’s so much stronger now that he’s been training, but the words are enough to shock Victor into letting him go. The surprised look on Victor’s face is almost worth it. Yuuri rubs at the tears running down his cheeks with the back of his sleeve. “You think I want the gold for _you_?”

Victor just stares at him. “I—”

“What do you think people see, when they see me? They see a Japanese kid who keeps _failing_ , that’s what they see. They see a kid who can’t live up to everyone’s expectations, who cracks under pressure, who isn’t as talented or strong or capable as anyone else, and just gets by on sheer hard work! Because it _is_ hard work, Victor. Skating the way you’ve had me skate the last year is the hardest work I’ve ever done in my entire life. Every time I go out there on the ice, I risk proving that I’m not worthy of it!

“I need that gold, Victor, if I’m going to go to Russia with you with my head held high. No one is going to take me seriously unless I’ve _won_ something that isn’t a regional competition. Maybe the Figure Skating Federation of Russia won’t recognize this one either – but it’s the only thing I can win between now and when we step off that plane in Saint Petersburg. I need this gold, Victor, if I’m going to prove that I deserve to be with you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” snaps Victor. “It’s not a question of _deserving_. You’re the best skater Japan has, even if today’s skates didn’t prove it.”

Yuuri groans. “I wish… I wish everyone would just _stop saying that_.”

“Yuuri, you can’t let anyone else’s expectations influence—”

“ _I know that!_ ” shouts Yuuri, and he covers his face. “I just… can’t you see? I want them to take me seriously.”

“They will!”

“On my own merits, and not because you say they should!” rebukes Yuuri. Victor slumps.

“Yuuri—”

It’s the way he says Yuuri’s name – so exhausted, as if he’s holding himself up by a thread.

Just like that - it’s so _stupid_ , their argument. Yuuri isn’t even sure that they’re not arguing because they both want the same thing, albeit for different reasons.

Yuuri just wants to _stop_.

“Can we just go to bed?” he asks, sniffling. “Just… stop arguing and go to _bed_?”

Victor breathes in. “Okay. Take a shower. I’ll order something to be sent up. And then we’ll sleep.”

In the shower, Yuuri lets himself finish crying. He bites his lips a few times to keep the sobs from echoing too much in the tiled room; Victor probably knows he’s crying, but that doesn’t mean Yuuri wants to confirm it. When he finally turns off the water, he can hear Victor’s voice at the door as whatever he’s ordered is being delivered.

By the time Yuuri slips out of the bathroom, wrapped in one of the hotel’s robes, Victor’s turned down the lights. He’s still wearing his suit pants and his button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his smile is sweet and careful.

“It’s not much – but it’s fast,” he explains.

Yuuri shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”

“Eat. I’m your coach now, not your lover,” Victor tells him. Yuuri manages a few bites of rice and cold seaweed salad, some cucumbers and grapes and whatever Victor hands him, before he finally crawls into the bed and slips under the covers, leaving the robe in a discarded pile on the floor.

The sheets are smooth and cold against his warm, clean skin. They feel heavenly. Yuuri sighs and settles into the pillow. He’s still tense, but exhaustion is taking over. He listens to the sounds of Victor moving around the room, the clink of dishes being stacked, the rush of water in the bathroom, a door opening and closing again before there’s the soft _snicks_ of locks being thrown, of lights being turned off, of drawers being closed.

The bed lurches a little as Victor slides next to him. Yuuri holds his breath, waiting for the gentle touch of fingers on his waist, the press of Victor’s nose to his neck, the length of his torso up against Yuuri’s back.

It doesn’t come.

Yuuri opens his eyes and turns to his fiance. Victor has propped himself up against the pillows. The light from his cell phone flashes on his face, blue-and-grey, as he scrolls through something with a frown. The earbuds in his ears give away the ever-persistent search for his free skate music.

Yuuri can’t see the ring on Victor’s finger, but he can see his own, glinting softly in the dim light.

Yuuri’s voice is a whisper. “Vitya.”

Victor looks over at him. The smile is enough that Yuuri knows he’s forgiven.

“Go to sleep, _solnyshko_ ,” says Victor gently. “I’ve set the alarm.”

“Did you mean it?” Yuuri asks. Victor will know what he’s asking.

Victor reaches over to take his hand. He rubs Yuuri’s ring with his thumb.

“Yes,” he says, and Yuuri closes his eyes to sleep.

*

Morning finds them still in bed – but not asleep.

Victor wakes to Yuuri’s lips on his chest – soft, lazy kisses that probably aren’t intended to wake him up. They work anyway. It’s warm under the thick covers, but Yuuri moving beside him is warmer. Legs shift and fingers run up and down one of Victor’s arms. The other is flung out on the pillow Yuuri’s not using.

“Mmm,” murmurs Victor. He rolls to face Yuuri. “This is a nice way to wake up.”

Yuuri doesn’t answer. He stretches, muscles flexing and dipping, to gently press his lips to Victor’s. It’s too brief a kiss to deepen, even if Victor chases him after he pulls away. But Yuuri’s already working his way down Victor’s body, dropping kisses along Victor’s neck and shoulders, his collarbone, his ribcage. Light kisses, open-mouthed, the only sound in the room for the very longest time as Victor’s breath turns to sighs. He settles his hands on the back of Yuuri’s head. It’s not direction, so much as just holding him, reminding himself of who’s leaving the damp trail down his skin.

The argument from the night before is forgotten - or at least, thinks Victor hazily, Yuuri’s doing his best to forget it. Maybe it’s better that way, especially since Victor’s not entirely sure why they were arguing in the first place, apart from Yuuri’s stubborn insistence that anyone’s faith in him is entirely misplaced.

Yuuri nudges Victor’s sleep-thick cock with his nose and says something in Japanese. It’s muffled by the covers and Victor’s skin. He’s not sure it’s meant for him, anyway.

Rational thought is no longer a possibility. Victor rolls his hips instead. “Yuuri….”

He wants Yuuri to take him in his mouth. Suckle him, use his tongue on the little bit of skin that puckers near the smooth skin of his head, which drives him completely wild. He wants Yuuri to press him into the mattress, to dominate, to use his body exactly as he likes. Open him up, control him, demonstrate again that whatever dynamic they have on the ice is flipped in the bedroom.

Instead, Yuuri nuzzles his cock a little more. Victor can feel Yuuri’s hot breath on his already sleep-damp skin and on the wiry hairs that cover his groin. Yuuri’s arms press against his hips, but it’s the closest Yuuri comes to really touching him the way he’s aching to be touched. It’s aggravating, exhilarating, to have just this of Yuuri, and no more.

He groans, rolling his hips again, trying to find something more satisfying than breath alone.

Yuuri moves back up to his mouth; their kiss is long and slow, leisurely. Yuuri’s cock rests next to Victor’s, warm and heavy and solid. Victor wants to reach down and wrap his fingers around them, feel them both pulsing and surging at the same time, hear Yuuri’s strangled gasp as they come, followed by his embarrassed, happy giggle as their breathing returns to normal, as their hearts slow down in time.

Instead, he luxuriates in gentle, undemanding kisses, feeling the desire build under his skin.. The sun peeks through the curtains. Victor relishes the _want_ in his bloodstream, his hands open on Yuuri’s freckled back.

Yuuri can kiss him for hours like this, teetering on the edge of impending orgasm. Victor only minds a little. Every kiss is a promise that Victor looks forward to cashing in.

“How long have you been awake?” he asks, as Yuuri shifts again, this time to kiss along Victor’s neck.

“Not long,” murmurs Yuuri.

“You could have slept in, the free skate isn’t until tomorrow.”

Yuuri’s shrug is slight, and accompanied by a nip on Victor’s shoulder. “I need the cardio.”

Victor laughs, remembering a long-ago conversation about what kinds of cardio are appropriate in the morning. “ _Now_ you take my suggestion.”

Yuuri freezes, lips still pressed to Victor’s clavicle.

Victor stares up at the ceiling, utterly still. “I’m an idiot.”

“ _Hai_ ,” agreed Yuuri dryly. He pushes himself up on his forearms. He doesn’t look _pleased_ , but he doesn’t look particularly mad, either. “I guess I could go running instead. There’s a very nice gym downstai---- _ahhhh_.”

Yuuri lets out a yelp as Victor flips him to his back. Victor straddles Yuuri, who flushes but doesn’t fight back. It’s enough for Victor to be _certain_ he’s not mad.

“Lovely _solnyshko_ ,” says Victor, and leans down to kiss Yuuri’s cheek.

“Wonderful _solnyshko_ ,” says Victor, and leans down to kiss Yuuri’s neck.

“Perfect _solnyshko_ ,” says Victor, and leans down to kiss Yuuri’s mouth.

Yuuri makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. He opens his legs, and Victor shifts above him so that their cocks rub against each other. “Vitya… I want....”

It’s a terrible idea, though - even if Yuuri isn’t competing until the next day. Victor’s not going to play with the podium like that.

“I know,” whispers Victor soothingly, wanting it anyway.

 _Time for that later_ , thinks Victor. He breaks the kiss and reaches to the side table, where he’s stashed their supplies in the bedside drawer – only to discover that the king-size bed is so large that he can’t even graze the table with his fingertips. “ _Chert!_ ”

Yuuri props himself up on his elbows. His eyes are wide. “The perks of a small bed.”

“Oh, shut up,” says Victor as he shimmies across the bed until he can reach the drawer. The lube is in a plastic bag because otherwise it leaks, and there’s just enough of the slick that he doesn’t even have to open the bottle itself. He swipes his fingers around the inside of the bag and turns back to find Yuuri on his side, head propped up on his hand.

“I think I’ve lost the mood,” says Yuuri dramatically.

Victor growls even as his heart swells with love. He can still see the dark circles under Yuuri’s eyes - the vestiges of the emotion that sent him into a spiral the night before - but that Yuuri’s _trying_ to put it behind him, to pretend that everything’s going to be okay…

Victor’s about to pounce when Yuuri pushes his shoulder so that he falls on his back. Yuuri covers him again, this time with a deep kiss that sends Victor’s thoughts reeling.

_You’ll be okay… this is okay… okay… very okay…._

“We’ll… just have… to go running,” gasps Victor in between kisses. Yuuri laughs low, even as he pulls Victor’s slicked-up fingers down to their cocks.

“Yeah, too bad,” says Yuuri with a gasp. “I really—”

Whatever Yuuri’s about to say is lost when Victor’s fingers wrap around their cocks, Yuuri’s hand on his wrist. Yuuri groans and slips off Victor to the side. Victor rolls so they face each other, close enough to breathe each other’s air.

Victor’s fingers keep up a steady pace, slipping and sliding against their foreskins, coming together and apart and rolling between their cocks. Yuuri leans in, presses his face into Victor’s neck, mouth open not for kisses, but for air.

“Vi- vi- _vi_ ,” is all he can say. It’s enough, more than Victor can even manage – and when Yuuri comes, on Victor’s half-formed name going up so sharply, it’s almost as if he’s in pain.

Victor comes half a minute later. It’s not timed as well as he’d like, but already Yuuri is shuddering down from his release, nuzzling close for a cuddle while he reaches down for the covers that have somehow ended up pooled near their ankles.

“It’s cold in here,” mutters Victor into Yuuri’s skin. Yuuri cuddles closer, holding him so tightly that he wonders if maybe Yuuri is trying to avoid looking at him.

Which is… not an unreasonable worry. The first time they’d made love, Yuuri hadn’t been able to meet his eyes for half an hour. Victor had stayed near him, not touching but close, and pretended to sleep while he waited for Yuuri to work his way through whatever panic he needed to experience.

Yuuri seems to be doing the same now – working through something, that is. He’s not asleep, not the way Victor can feel his eyelashes as his eyes open and close, or the way he hugs Victor tight every so often. He’s not panicking, either – his breathing is steady and sure, and he’s quiet – no whimpering or whispering or stuttered breaths indicating that he’s worrying endlessly about something he can’t control.

Victor doesn’t have to think hard to imagine what it is Yuuri’s working through. The vestiges of last night’s argument still hang in the shadows and forgotten corners of the room.

_You asked if I meant it, about marrying you without a gold. I would. Of course I would. How can you not realize that challenge was ever only a joke in the first place?_

Victor lets Yuuri keep to himself a little longer. He uses one arm to hold Yuuri tightly to him and runs his fingers lightly over the arm Yuuri has slung over his chest. Their legs are tangled, their hips are wet with come and lube, and at some point they’ll need to shower, but for now… it can wait.

_I don’t know why I thought I could coach you. You don’t really need me - anything you’ve done, you’ve done yourself._

_It’s only a matter of time before you figure that out._

Yuuri shifts, his face turning up. Victor looks down at him. “Sorry, I got lost in my own head.”

Victor shrugs. “We aren’t on the ice until 9:30.”

Yuuri makes a soft, assenting noise, and rests his cheek back on Victor’s chest. Victor keeps stroking his arm lazily.

The sun is blazing into their east-facing windows now – he can see the sharp outline of their window on the opposite wall. Even the shadows are golden.

“Yuuri,” he says into the quiet morning. “Should we talk about it?”

Yuuri is still. “About what?”

“Your free skate tomorrow.”

Yuuri sighs. “Victor. We _talked_ about this. No coaching in the bedroom. Or anytime at least one of us is naked.”

Victor chuckles. “I wasn’t going to be a coach.”

Yuuri snorts.

“I just…” Victor sighs. He sits up, dislodging Yuuri, but he’s able to look at Yuuri in the face now, and that’s better. “I meant it. I don’t need a gold to marry you.”

Yuuri’s mouth is set. “Maybe _you_ don’t. _I_ do, though.”

Victor’s eyes widen. “Yuuri—”

“Would we even get married before the season is over?” demands Yuuri. He sits up to face Victor. “So it’s a moot point. If the worst happens and I _don’t_ manage to get gold tomorrow, I’ve got at least two more chances this season to get another.”

Victor sighs. “You don’t—”

Yuuri closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I’m not going to argue about this with you, Victor.”

 _And if you don’t get gold at all? Would you put off marrying me indefinitely?_ thinks Victor – and hates himself for it.

Yuuri touches his cheek – so tenderly, with a gentle and loving smile on his face which reassures Victor that he was right not to say the hateful words aloud. “I’m going to win gold tomorrow, Vitya. I know I screwed up yesterday, and I’ve only got myself to blame if I don’t even reach the podium.”

Victor circles his fingers around Yuuri’s wrist. “Stop that. You’re going to be on the podium, and we’re going to Worlds together.”

Yuuri is quiet. “Oh,” he says suddenly. “ _Oh_.”

Victor’s heart sinks. “Yuuri—?”

But Yuuri pulls away. “Victor – you’re not coming back to skating just for me, are you? Tell me you’re coming back for yourself, too.”

Victor kisses him because it’s easier than answering. If he’s kissing Yuuri, he doesn’t even have to think about what he _would_ say, if he had to.

The kiss doesn’t diminish Yuuri’s distraction, though. Yuuri’s hands rest on Victor’s forearms, and he makes no move to shift closer to him. At least, when he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t pull away.

“Vitya,” repeats Yuuri, eyes narrowed and nearly stern. “ _Tell me_. You want to come back, right? You’re not just doing it because I want you to?”

Victor shakes his head. “I’m coming back _for us_ ,” he says. “There’s a difference.”

It’s close enough that Victor thinks it might even be true.

“Yeah,” says Yuuri, shaken. “Okay.”

Victor doesn’t think he believes it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thanks to mia826 for her assistance with the Japanese translations. 
> 
> Spoikoinoi Nochi, moy Yuuri (Russian) – Goodnight, my Yuuri  
> "Ano futari no konyaku wa baimeikoui deshou?” (Japanese) - Do you think their engagement is a publicity stunt?  
> “Eeh, sou janai yo!” (Japanese) - No way!  
> "Mite... Katsuki-san ni me ga kugizuke dayo." (Japanese) - Look at the way he can’t take his eyes off him.  
> “Katsuki-san ga Roshia ni hikkoshite iru no wa zannen desu ne.” (Japanese) - It’s just too bad Katsuki-san is moving to Russia.  
> “Dou iu imi desu ka?” (Japanese) - What do you mean?  
> “Kare wa Nihon ni kaeru to choushi ga iinda. Katsu tame ni wa Nihon ni inai to ikenai no ka?” (Japanese) - He only started doing well when he moved back to Japan. What if he needs to be home in order to win?  
> Chert! (Russian) – Damn! (A very mild version)


	6. The Japanese Nationals Free Skate

The practice rink echoes with voices: coaches, skaters, a few spectators clutching their cameras and plushies and hot chocolates. Victor has always wondered about the audience at figure skating competitions. Are they there for the artistic merit, the beauty and grace floating on ice? Are they there for the sheer power and skill required to jump and rotate in the air as many times as necessary before landing on a single foot as if it’s the easiest thing in the world?

Or are they simply waiting to see someone crash into the boards and walk away with ice all over their asses?

Victor watches from the sidelines as Yuuri runs through his free skate program. It’s more difficult to be an observer than he would have thought; for months, he watched Yuuri from the side, never minding that he wasn’t the one performing. He was able to focus on his role as Yuuri’s coach. To pick up on the details that will make or break Yuuri’s performance, to decide how to present his suggestions to Yuuri in a way that best convey their importance.

It’s only now, after a week and a half of training alongside Yuuri, of sharing late afternoon ice and early morning runs and the barre in Minako’s studio that he can feel the solid ground beneath his feet. The lack of blades on his shoes. The way he doesn’t glide when he moves, but _walks_ , and it feels… _less_.

“Victor?”

Victor shakes off his reverie to realize that Yuuri’s no longer skating, but standing on the other side of the boards, a quizzical look on his face. Victor tries to look as if he’s been paying attention while he hands Yuuri the water bottle. “You need to center the spin a bit more – it shouldn’t travel as much as it does.”

“I know. Minami was working on his lutzes nearby, it was either travel or die.”

Victor snorts a laugh and glances out at Minami, who seems to be getting a lecture on that very thing from his coach. The poor kid looks so mortified, it’s a wonder he hasn’t burst into smoke. “We could always go find a public skating rink somewhere, though I’m not sure you wouldn’t end up dying at some other young skater’s aspirations instead.”

“Hmm,” says Yuuri, guzzling the water. He sets it down and reaches for Victor’s hand. “Are you all right? You seem a bit distracted.”

_ Blyad. _

“I’m fine,” says Victor brightly, straightening up. “Back to the spin, please, and then your triple axel. I want to see you land it at least four times before practice is over.”

Yuuri switches back to student-mode without even blinking. “Yes, coach.”

Yuuri begins to pick up speed for his jump – and Victor’s mind wanders again. Perhaps the skaters here wouldn’t mind – but no. It’s their ice, their practice, not his. He’s not going to encroach where he’s not wanted or needed, even if he’d be welcome, because of course they would never say “No.”

It’ll be two days before he can step back on the ice and train. He hasn’t trained on the ice since the day before. It’s too much time away, especially when Victor’s trained with pneumonia and bronchitis. The fact he’s _well_ and not skating is almost an itch under his skin. How did he manage to ignore it for so many months?

Well. He was on the ice _sometimes_. He could fool himself into thinking that he was just taking an absurdly long five-minute-breather to watch another skater perform.

Now, though… he wants to skate. Desperately. Watching Yuuri is firing something up in the back of his head, making him question decisions about his nearly completed short program. Would the diagonal pass work better with an axel, or a loop? Should he add an illusion to the step sequence? The sit spin with the twist – what if he came out of it in an arabesque? Could a skater even _do_ that?

Victor wants to try so badly he can almost feel phantom blades on his feet.

The buzzer rings, indicating the end of the practice session. One by one, skaters come off the ice, flushed and perspiring, breathing hard.

“I _tried_ to keep up with him,” Victor hears one complain to his coach. “He just never _stops_. Except to talk to his coach, and that barely takes half a minute.”

“When you’re as good as Katsuki Yuuri, you’ll have that kind of stamina too,” the coach reassures the skater as they head off.

Victor smiles and hands Yuuri’s skate guards to him. “You had fans on the ice with you.”

Yuuri gives him a confused look, disbelieving as always, as he snaps on the skate guards. “I know it’s early, but I’m starving – do you want to go to that ramen place you mentioned yesterday?”

Victor bites his lip. “I thought I’d go back to the gym. The weight machines…”

Yuuri’s mouth opens as if to speak, but snaps shut just as quickly. “Oh. Right. Of course.”

“You should go,” says Victor quickly. “I don’t want you over-exerting yourself before tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He sounds disappointed; Victor tries to shove down the brief, irresponsible flare that says, _Go with him! Have fun! Eat noodles!_

“Minako is trying to catch your attention,” he says, nodding to where Minako has unfurled yet another banner – the woman has a never-ending supply. “Perhaps she could go with you?”

“The only thing worse than watching you get smashed before a competition is watching _her_ get smashed before a competition,” sighs Yuuri. “You don’t mind?”

“Unless you and she really _were_ lovers,” says Victor. He grins when Yuuri starts yelling protestations. “Oh, _go_. I’ll see you at the hotel later.”

“Okay.” Yuuri leans in for a kiss. “Don’t strain anything, _rōjin_.”

“I don’t know what you just called me, but I’m going to pretend it was nice,” says Victor. Yuuri laughs, which doesn’t really convince him of a translation in either direction of nice versus naughty.

Victor pauses at the door to the rink. There’s a new flight of skaters standing at the boards, ready to take over the ice as soon as the Zamboni is done. They’re so young, so eager, jumping out of their skin with nerves and anticipation. For a brief moment, Victor remembers what it was like to be them. So impatient that he’s willing to skate behind the Zamboni just to push it a little bit faster.

So full of energy and excitement that every time he stepped on the ice, he felt like he could do a dozen quads in a row, one right after the other, and still have enough breath to fly.

“Victor?” calls Yuuri, somewhere ahead.

“Yes,” says Victor. He gives the waiting children one last look before turning away. “I’m coming.”

*

The ramen place that Victor saw is apparently extremely popular, even at the early end of lunchtime. Yuuri’s surprised at first to learn that the seating area has three levels; when he realizes that nearly every table is occupied, the extra seating makes more sense. The crowd is a mix of tourists, businessmen in suits, housewives shopping for the day, and familiar faces from the skating circuit.

“I think everyone took Victor’s advice to come here,” says Minako as they sit down. It’s a good table near a window, just the two of them, and Yuuri’s grateful they found it instead of sitting at one of the communal tables near the center. “Is it really good?”

“No idea,” admits Yuuri. “I don't think he's even eaten here.”

“That ass,” says Minako fondly, just as the waiter arrives to take their order. When he’s gone, she leans over the table. “Okay, spill. What the hell, Katsuki?”

“Huh?” Yuuri leans back, startled.

“Your program last night, dummy!  What was that?”

Yuuri groans; he rests his head on the table with a soft _thump_. “Aliens took over my body?”

“Uh-huh.” Minako doesn’t look convinced that this is even a reasonable excuse. Which, he supposes, it isn’t. “It got to you, didn’t it?”

Yuuri looks up, wary. “What did?”

“I know you, Yuuri-kun. I know how your mind works. You heard everyone saying how you were sure to win gold, and that little spot in the back of your mind decided yup, gotta fuck with that too.”

“Language,” hissed Yuuri, glancing at the family sitting nearby. He doesn’t _think_ they heard, but once Minako really gets going, it’s pretty hard to stop her.

“Fine, fine,” says Minako, sitting back. “I’m not wrong.”

Yuuri sighed. “You know it’s not intentional.”

“So I’m right.”

“You’re not entirely wrong,” admits Yuuri as he sits up.

“You can’t tell me it’s a _surprise_. You’re the only internationally ranked Japanese skater on the Senior circuit. Of _course_ everyone expects you to win gold. Half of them probably expect you to win silver and bronze too.”

“ _Minako-sensei_.”

“I’m just saying!”

“It’s just… he doesn’t _get_ it.”

“He…? Oh, you mean Victor?”

“Yeah.”

“What doesn’t he get?”

“Everything. Some things. Just…” Yuuri frowns as he tries to pick out the correct words. “He thinks the gold medal is about _him_. Getting married. You know. Instead of…”

“Ah,” says Minako. She falls silent as the waiter gives them each a cup of green tea. Once he is gone, she leans forward. “Yuuri, I know I said it was important to get the gold, to prove to Russia that you’re worth their time, but you shouldn’t get worked up about it. It’s only a feather. Not having it isn’t going to stop you from entering the country or their ice rinks.”

“But it’ll make it easier,” says Yuuri. “You were right about that, Minako-sensei.”

Minako almost looks regretful. It’s a weird look on her. “I wish I wasn’t.”

“I tried to explain it to Victor. I didn’t really do a good job of it.”

Minako turns the cup of tea around on the table without picking it up. “Victor… he’s never lived outside of Russia, has he?”

“Until he came to Hasetsu, he’d never lived outside Saint Petersburg,” says Yuuri with a wry laugh.

“Hmm! So you see. That’s the difference between you and me and him. It’s not our talent that sets us apart – it’s that you and I, we’ve had to leave everything that made us behind in order to pursue our dreams. I went to Paris – you went to Detroit. It’s hard to be an expatriate, it’s even worse to be an expatriate in a culture that is so radically different from our own. Victor – he’s never experienced what it’s like to change your entire life like that.”

“He was born a Soviet citizen,” Yuuri reminds her. “His entire _country_ changed before he was five years old.”

“He was always Russian, though,” says Minako as their ramen arrives.

 _It’s true enough_ , thinks Yuuri as he slurps up the noodles. _Victor’s entire country might have collapsed before he was five, but… he’s always at least been in the same place, surrounded by the same people who were going through the exact same thing. No one in Detroit really understood what being an expat was like until Phichit turned up._

“Do you know why I came back to Hasetsu?”

Yuuri glances up. “No.”

There’s a smile on Minako’s face as she looked out the window at busy Tokyo. The ramen bar has only gotten busier, and the noise echoes off the glass. Outside, despite the flashing lights and the thousands (millions) of people on the streets, it seems quiet and serene by comparison.

“It’s home. That’s the wonderful thing about it, Yuuri – it’s always home, even when it’s not. Hasetsu didn’t change. I did.”

_Forgetting to take off my shoes when I came in. Taking too long to bow. But the onsen smelled exactly the way I remembered it, and sometimes I’d get this whiff of it in Detroit for no reason I could tell. I’d have to stop and smell and remember, because I couldn’t turn away._

“I remember,” says Yuuri softly.

“I was at home in Paris,” says Minako. She might be sitting in Tokyo – but Yuuri can tell she’s somewhere else. In Paris, probably, sitting with the Eiffel Tower at her back. “It’s still a part of me. It’ll always be a part of me – even as Detroit will always be a part of you.”

“I’m still Japanese.”

“I’m not denying that. I’m just saying, you’ll never be from just Hasetsu again. Even if you win tomorrow, it’ll be because of what you’ve found and accomplished outside of Japan.”

Yuuri huffs and closes his eyes, breathing deep. “Last week you said I have to win this. I have to go to Russia as the Japanese champion to remind them that I’m not their puppet, even if I dance on Russian ice and learn from Russian coaches.”

“It would help, yes.”

“And now you’re saying it’s impossible!”

“It’s still worth wanting,” says Minako. “Having that experience – it doesn’t make you any less Japanese. And I think, considering what you’re going to face when you arrive in Russia, it will mean everything if you have that gold medal.”

Yuuri closes his eyes tightly. “They’re going to hate me. I stole Victor from them.”

“You’re giving him back.”

“With a very large me-shaped caveat.” He opens his eyes and leans forward, urgency thrumming through him.

_If I can make her understand…._

“I want them to take me seriously, Minako. I don’t want them to see me as Victor’s tag-along. They’ll never take him seriously as a coach if they think I’m just there as window dressing, or his muse, or… or whatever they think I am. I can’t let them think that he’s wasted the last year coaching me, or that he’s wasting his time _now_ by continuing.”

“And so, the gold,” says Minako.

“Yeah,” says Yuuri.

Minako is nodding her head. “Okay, then. Get the gold. Show them what you’re worth.”

Yuuri can feel the pin-prick of tears at the back of eyes. He closes them, trying not to cry.

When he opens them again, he’s struck by the thought.

“Minako-sensei. Come with us.”

Minako shakes her head – she doesn’t even look surprised at his request. “No. I’ve had my time overseas. It’s your turn now.”

Yuuri smiles anyway. It’s not like he actually expected her to go – but it was a nice thought.

_I remember that first year in Detroit and how lonely it was. There were other Japanese students, but between classes and practice and competitions, I never had time to hang out with them._

_It’s going to be the same in Saint Petersburg. But I survived in Detroit. I can do it again. I’ll just have to rely on Vitya to be my reminder of home. That’s all._

“He’s never going to understand why I need this win so badly, is he?”

“I think Victor could live a thousand years outside of Russia and never understand,” says Minako. “That doesn’t change what it means to you. It’s important to you. That’s enough.”

“You’ll visit, though?”

“I’ll even buy the vodka,” promises Minako.

*

“Let’s go on a walk,” says Yuuri after dinner, while they’re still in the lobby chatting with Yuuri’s parents. Yuuri’s got the mischievous look in his eye again; even though Victor just wants to bury themselves in the bed and watch incomprehensible Japanese game shows with him, he shrugs his shoulders.

“Sure. You talk to your parents, I’ll get our coats.”

“No, I’ll get them, you stay here,” says Yuuri. He dashes to the elevators before Victor can argue.

He likes talking to Yuuri’s parents – they don’t mind his terrible Japanese, and Makkachin loves Hiroko, even if she is the source of the dreaded pork buns. Hiroko is full of questions about Saint Petersburg, most of which he doesn’t even know how to begin to answer. (Where is the nearest Asian market to his apartment? Where is the nearest shrine? What is the average yearly snowfall?) Toshiya would rather discuss the latest soccer trades. They both talk over each other, interrupting two simultaneous conversations. Victor isn’t surprised that his Japanese has gotten as good as it has in the last year; just a ten-minute conversation with Yuuri’s parents is worth an hour of conversation with anyone else.

When Yuuri returns, he’s carrying not only Victor’s coat, but a large shopping bag as well. There’s a paper mask over his face, so whatever their destination, it’ll involve proximity to other people.

“Okay,” says Victor, trying to peer into the bag, but Yuuri’s covered whatever’s in it with a sweater.

Yuuri flushes. “Come on, let’s go!”

Yuuri’s pace is too brisk for a leisurely walk and Tokyo is a wind-tunnel, so the wind-chill is bitterly cold. Victor hopes this isn’t a sign that he’s going to feel Saint Petersburg’s comparatively colder weather more than before. He doesn’t mind Japan being in his blood – after all, Yuuri’s taken up permanent residence in his heart – but he doesn’t want Japan to have thinned it any.

“Do I get to know where you’re taking me?” says Victor lightly.

“When we get there,” says Yuuri. “You’ll probably figure it out before we arrive, though.”

“Okay,” says Victor. He glances at the other people on the street, about half of whom wear face masks similar to Yuuri’s. “There’s more people out than I would have thought.”

“Well,” says Yuuri, his voice oddly muffled through the mask, “it’s Christmas Eve.”

“I know. I didn’t think you’d celebrate it.”

“Not like other countries,” says Yuuri mischievously. It takes a minute for Victor to realize Yuuri’s teasing him. He purses his lips, but Yuuri ignores him. “It’s not a religious holiday here. It’s a day for… um… people. Who. Like. Each other.”

Yuuri’s blushing now. Considering what they had done that morning – as well as the rings on their fingers – his embarrassment is adorable and ridiculous.

“Ah,” says Victor. “Which explains why you had lunch with Minako.”

Yuuri squeaks and blushes harder, which just makes Victor grin.

“Since you like her,” he added. “And I had dinner with your parents, and I like them. I think I like this holiday tradition, Yuuri! Are we going somewhere I’d like?”

“I can tell you who I _don’t_ like right about now,” mutters Yuuri, but he’s laughing.

Victor takes Yuuri’s hand. They’re wearing gloves, so it’s not quite as intimate as he’d like, but Yuuri threads their fingers together and smiles anyway.

The walk doesn’t take very long; by the time they arrive at the practice rink, Victor’s long since realized _where_ they’re going. He’s just not sure _why_.

“I do like watching you skate,” he says as Yuuri knocks on the door. It’s dark inside, except for what is clearly a manager’s office. Victor can see someone leave the brightly-lit office and head for the doors. “Unless – _Yuuri_. I cannot in good faith allow you to skate naked for me the night before a competition. You’ll catch a cold.”

Even behind the face mask, Victor can tell that Yuuri’s mouth drops open. “I… _no_.”

Yuuri’s shock is saved by the woman opening the door. She and Yuuri are immediately off in what sounds like incredibly apologetic Japanese from both sides. Victor follows Yuuri inside, where they wait while the woman relocks the doors before leading them into the practice rink. It takes a moment for the overhead lights to come up to full power; the two of them continue chattering away without so much as a by-your-leave to Victor.

Until finally the woman turns to Victor, bows low, and says in perfect Russian, “Enjoy your evening, Victor Andreyevich Nikiforov-san.”

The Russian comes as a complete surprise – so much so that it takes Victor a moment to realize he’s hearing _Russian_ and not _Japanese_. Which is frightening enough as a concept, and one he’s not going to examine too closely. The ending honorific is almost too much, but Victor manages to bow without laughing. “ _Spasibo_.”

The woman leaves. Victor can’t help the silly grin on his face. “Wow! That was an _excellent_ surprise. Ten stars! If we did not have this rink to ourselves, I’d say we could go home now.”

Yuuri laughs as he pulls the mask from his face. “We have about ninety minutes before open skate, and then this place’ll fill up with couples.”

“Oh, good, we can start them off,” says Victor. He leans in for a kiss, but Yuuri takes a step back, still smiling.

“Nope,” he says, handing the shopping bag to Victor. “I’m not skating. You are.”

_…I am?_

Victor stares at him.

“Your skates,” prods Yuuri. “And your work-out clothes.”

_…Yuuri found me ice time?_

“You… brought my skates?” asks Victor. “I left them in Hasetsu.”

“You left them. Mom packed them.”

_How did he know this is what I wanted more than anything?_

Victor can’t speak.

“It’s not a birthday present,” Yuuri hastens to say, apologetic as he shifts from foot to foot, clearly nervous. “So please don’t refuse on those grounds. It’s a Christmas Eve present. I know it’s not enough time, but…”

Victor kisses him. He can feel the shopping bag hitting his knees – _don’t drop them, Yuuri!_ – and he doesn’t care. Yuuri’s lips are cold despite the thin protection of the paper mask, but his tongue is deliciously warm. Victor wants to shove him up against the wall and kiss every inch of his body, but…

 _Ice_.

The kiss is still good. Victor does his best to keep it sweet and sensual, pouring every bit of love and relief and gratitude that he can manage into it, all in the single minute he allows before pulling away with a pop.

“It’s enough,” he says. He catches the grin beginning to form on Yuuri’s face when he grabs the shopping bag and _races_ to the nearest bench to change.

“I’ve got your iPod,” Yuuri calls to him. “What do you want me to play?”

“Anything!”

They’re alone and Victor’s never been shy. He rips off his jeans and the long-sleeved shirt and changes quickly into the clothes Yuuri’s brought for him. It takes a few minutes to lace up his skates, but by the time he’s out on the ice, Yuuri’s managed to link his iPod up to the speaker system. Rachmaninov, which takes him right back to novice practices in Saint Petersburg as a kid.

Yuuri leans against the boards while Victor zips by, two laps already under his belt. He’s a little bit stiff, but between the walk in the cold and the sheer adrenaline of a surprise practice session, he’s eager to start. He turns and skates backwards to shout at Yuuri. “Are you joining me or what? You need to work on your quad flip.”

Yuuri laughs. “This is your time!”

Victor clutches his chest. “And on Christmas Eve!”

“Oh, fine,” says Yuuri, right as he steps out onto the ice. Victor laughs when he realizes Yuuri’s already wearing his skates.

He laughs harder when he realizes that Yuuri must have left them at the rink, in order not to tip his hand later.

While Yuuri warms up, Victor goes into a spin, and then starts working through the step sequence that he’d been trying to imagine earlier. It’s good, he thinks – maybe not for the music in his short program, but he likes it. He’s still a little bit stiff, but once he’s properly stretched out and loose, it’ll be excellent. A glance at Yuuri shows that Yuuri really is working on his quad flip. The form’s right, the speed is right, _everything_ is right.

Except the landing. Victor frowns, trying to remember back when he was learning it, how he managed to land it when he didn’t know what he was doing.

“Stop coaching me!” Yuuri scolds him when he sees Victor’s attention on him.

Victor pulls his focus back to his own program. He knows Yuuri is watching and he doesn’t mind. It’s not like he’s ever created a program in complete privacy before anyway – even at his home rink, Victor Nikiforov never had the pull to skate alone.

It occurs to Victor that after a few more days, the privacy they’ve enjoyed at Ice Castle Hasetsu will be over. They’ll be in the rink with Yura and Mila and Georgi, angling for space and the fleeting attention of their coaches. Yakov and Sasha and Katya will be on the sides or on the ice, shouting encouragement and abuse and advice, and the skaters will have to determine when the shouts are meant for them and not someone else.

He wonders how Yuuri will cope – and looks over at him just in time to see Yuuri land a quad flip.

“ _Davai!_ ” he shouts, throwing his arms in the air and gliding over to Yuuri, who’s flushed and laughing.

“I know. Russian for _do it again_.”

“ _Da_ ,” agrees Victor. He watches as Yuuri takes off.

The second flip is nearly as perfect as the first – Yuuri’s arm goes out, but doesn’t touch.

Victor grins when Yuuri skids to a stop near him. “Good work. Reward time.”

“We’ve only got about twenty minutes left,” says Yuuri. “And I’m not taking off my clothes.”

Victor shakes his head. “I have another reward in mind.”

He skates to the boards, snaps on his blade guards, and walks over to where Yuuri has his iPod plugged into the speaker system. Yuuri follows him, but doesn’t leave the ice. “What are you doing?”

“I have the music to my short program. I thought you’d like to see it.”

“What?”

Victor glances up from where he’s scrolling through his iPod. Yuuri looks shocked. “It’s just a demo – a piano and a balalaika, Sergei’s working on the final version, but it’s enough for me to set the choreography. I think it’s done now. I want you to be the first to see it.”

“Me?” squeaks Yuuri, his eyes wide. Victor sets the iPod down and goes over to kiss him. The boards are still between them, but he can taste Yuuri’s surprised distraction. He holds Yuuri’s face in his hands and loves the shock he sees there.

“Who else?” Victor whispers. “It’s for you.”

Yuuri’s eyes are dark in the dim light, but they’re shining. He goes still between Victor’s hands, as if he’s afraid to even breathe. “I thought… maybe you’d want Yakov to approve.”

“Yakov hasn’t approved of anything I’ve done in the last three years. Mostly because I’ve never given him the opportunity to _disapprove_ , but still.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“One might think you don’t _want_ to see this program, Yuuri,” Victor teases him.

Yuuri scrambles to step out of the rink. “No, no, I do, absolutely, which song is it? Tell me when to press play.”

Victor laughs and hands him the iPod. “Do you want to know the story?”

“If you want to tell me.”

“It’s about a man who’s alone. He goes looking for one thing and finds another along with it. He discovers both what he expected and what he didn’t, and with what he’s found, his life is a thousand times richer and more detailed than it’s ever been before. As if the world before was in black and white, and now it’s in color, all because of…”

Said aloud, it sounds silly. Victor shrugs to hide the strange flush on the back of his neck. But Yuuri looks stunned, holding the iPod in his hands, hair still in disarray from his own practice, glasses slightly askew on his nose.

“Oh,” says Yuuri, eyes wide.

Victor grins, gives him a fleeting kiss on the lips, and pushes off onto the ice. “Give me three counts after I’m in position, then press play,” he calls over his shoulder.

He’s loose now – an hour of skating isn’t quite the same as a proper stretch before practice, but Victor feels a quiet confidence that he hasn’t felt in… years? He doesn’t know, but for the first time in a very long time, he doesn’t doubt that he’ll land every jump he attempts.

His heart pounds as he digs the toe pick on his left skate into the ice. He clasps his hands together behind him, turns his face up, and closes his eyes.

He takes a deep breath.

_Here we go._

The moment he’d listened to Sergei’s demo, Victor knew he was going to skate to it. He could hear the instruments that weren’t being played, see the movements he hadn’t yet choreographed, feel the jumps he still can’t quite land perfectly under his skin. Just as it’s always been with Sergei’s music, it’s exactly what was in his head, and he never realized until Sergei recorded it.

Yuuri’s seen his short program, in bits and pieces. They’ve talked about it over dinner, discussed the merits of one step sequence over the other.

The only thing Yuuri _hasn’t_ done is seen it performed to the music in its entirety – no one’s seen that yet. Now Victor’s about to perform it for the only audience that matters, and the seconds expand into centuries before the music begins.

_I hope he…_

The first chords ring out, and there’s no more time to think.

Victor skates.

*

Yuuri doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it’s not the music that comes out of the speakers. He notices the balalaika first, soft pinpricks like bells, quiet and contemplative. It’s a little lonely, and Victor’s skating is melancholy in response. His body sways as he spins on first one toe pick, and then the other as his untethered leg marks a wide circle on the ice.

_It’s about a man who’s alone. Victor, before he came to Hasetsu._

The piano joins in, weaving a melody amongst the notes from the balalaika. For Victor, it’s a siren call. He perks up and begins to skate as if trying to follow the sound. He turns, weaves, spins on the ice, reaching for something unseen, and a few times, he even catches it before it slips away again.

Yuuri can’t take his eyes off Victor. He’s seen the choreography in bits and pieces. All together, it seems fresh and new and wonderful.

It’s the _music_ that surprises Yuuri the most.

The melody is familiar, simple, and sweet. Yuuri knows he’ll want to hear it again before the night is over. He won’t get tired of this music, maybe not ever. And as Victor’s program progresses, it reminds Yuuri more and more of Hasetsu, of _home_ , of the music his parents play in the background of the onsen, so low most guests don’t even notice it.

_Victor heard it. He must have asked my mother for the CD, so Sergei could incorporate it into his program. No one else watching is going to understand what they’re hearing, even if they realize it’s Japanese. They might think it’s me, but… it’s not. At least, it’s not only me._

_Oh, Victor. You found so much more than just me and your inspiration in Hasetsu. This isn’t a love letter to just me, is it? Not really._

It’s halfway through the program when Yuuri realizes something: the Victor on the ice isn’t the same Victor who skated at the Grand Prix final last year.

It’s not even quite the same Victor who skated with Yuuri at the Grand Prix Exhibition _this_ year.

Yuuri dances the details on ice: his programs are full of nuance and precision, honed by years in Minako’s studio, cultivated to increase his presentation score when his technical score falters.

Victor has always been larger than life on the ice. He has the details and the nuance, but that’s never what anyone notices. His movements are deliberate, where Yuuri’s are organic. His motions are bold and definitive, where Yuuri’s ebb and flow through the patterns he skates.

_He goes looking for one thing, and finds another along with it. Victor says he came to coach me – but I don’t think that’s true, even if he thinks it is. I think he came looking for a reason to skate again. He found a home. Or maybe it was the other way around. Does it matter?_

Yuuri knows his style of skating has changed under Victor’s guidance. He can feel his skating grow bolder and more self-assured with every day with Victor’s confidence. It probably makes sense that Victor’s style would be similarly influenced.

Because it _has_. Victor’s brass has softened into something lighter, his exuberance slowed down and eased into something more natural. He’s always been a breathtaking performer, but this is something else. Yuuri can barely breathe, watching as Victor moves into the step sequence as the balalaika grows faster and faster, as the piano crescendos into something so much richer and fuller – Yuuri can hear the orchestration that will be in the final version.

_As if the world before was in black and white, and now it’s in color…_

The music slows; the balalaika and the piano play together as Victor’s skating becomes light-hearted and cheerful, free in a way that shows the delight he’s taking in his performance. As the music draws to a close, he reaches out, hand over hand, palms up to hold the most perfect, precious gift. He pulls them in to clasp his hands to his chest, curling his fingers over it protectively as he closes his eyes, slowly spinning until the sounds of the balalaika have faded away.

The look on his face is so peaceful and serene, Yuuri doesn’t dare make a sound for fear of breaking the spell. He can barely breathe as it is. He holds his hands over his mouth and feels the flame in his cheeks on his fingertips.

Victor drops his hands and looks up at Yuuri. The smile on his face falters – and that’s enough incentive for Yuuri to go scrambling on the ice in a rush toward Victor, just as Victor rushes to meet him halfway.

Yuuri can’t say a word. His throat is too thick, too tied in knots. He plows into Victor and sends them spinning upright on the ice. Yuuri squeezes Victor in a hug with his nose buried in Victor’s chest. Victor smells like sweat and ice and Yuuri’s mother’s fabric softener, and Yuuri can hear Victor’s heart beating solidly.

_I can’t find the words. I’ll just hold you instead._

“You liked it,” says Victor. He sounds so satisfied that Yuuri laughs.

“I did.”

“It’s not very surprising, though.”

“I’m surprised.”

“You shouldn’t be.” Victor leans back to get a better look at Yuuri’s face. “You’re crying?”

“You’re such an idiot,” said Yuuri warmly, and he goes up on his toe picks to kiss him. They’ve stopped spinning on the ice now, but Yuuri is still a little dizzy. “And completely unfair. What’s this going to look like at Worlds, Vitya? You’re going to skate a love letter, and it’s going to look like I’m only out to seduce you.”

Victor’s grin is mischievous. “Well….”

Yuuri pokes him in the stomach and Victor starts to giggle. The smile on his face is so bright, so relieved – Yuuri can’t stop smiling in kind. They’re giggling hard, unable to let the other one go, and they slip on their skates and tumble down to the ice.

Yuuri lets out a yelp as Victor falls onto his stomach.

“Did I hurt you?” asks Victor, worried through the giggles. He’s up and on his knees before Yuuri can draw a breath.

“Some skaters we are,” giggles Yuuri. “We can’t even stay on our feet. I scraped my hand, it’s okay.”

His palm stings and is turning red. Victor takes Yuuri’s hand in his and brings it up to his mouth for a kiss. Yuuri rests his fingers on Victor’s cheeks – and Victor yelps and starts laughing again.

“Your fingers are cold!” he says, but doesn’t let go of Yuuri’s hand.

“I’m on the ice, of course they’re cold!”

Victor kisses the ring on Yuuri’s finger. He holds Yuuri’s hand to his lips and closes his eyes.

Yuuri’s heart turns over; there’s a pleasurable curl in his gut and a warmth under his skin. If they were back in their hotel room – or anywhere but sitting on the ice when there’s undoubtedly people eager to come in at any moment – he might act on it. “Vitya—”

“Your skate tomorrow,” says Victor suddenly. “I know you think the gold is important—”

“It is,” insists Yuuri.

“—But you’ll be welcomed in Saint Petersburg whether you have it or not. Yakov, Katya, Mila – they’re my family, and you are mine. If you need the gold to make yourself believe that – then I want you to have it.”

Yuuri breath shakes. “I know you think it’s stupid and irrational…”

“Maybe not.” Victor kisses Yuuri’s fingers, one by one. “You might never train in Japan again. It would be nice to leave them with a beautiful performance. I want it for you, because you want it. Isn’t that what partnership is about?”

Yuuri’s going to cry again. He can feel the tears bubbling up in his eyes, his entire chest heaving with the effort. Instead, he throws his arms around Victor and hugs him tight.

“I’m going to win gold tomorrow for you,” he whispers, urgently.

“No,” says Victor. “You’re going to win gold _for you_.”

*

“Welcome to the final day of the Japanese National Figure Skating Championships. I’m Morooka Hisashi, and I’m here with Nobunari Oda, live from the Yoyogi National Gymnasium in Tokyo. We’ve seen some wonderful skating the last few days, and our final event is the men’s singles free skate. Nobunari-san, what do we expect to see today?”

“Thank you, Morooka-san. Our top three competitors will go on to the World Championships in April. Right now, we have Sugihara Yuki-san in first, Hayakawa Hatori-san in second, and Katsuki Yuuri-san in third. All three skaters are performing in the final flight, scheduled to begin in just a few minutes, and it will be one to watch. Katsuki-san has been widely marked to win this competition, but his short program was not at the level we’ve seen from him this season.”

“It reminded me a lot of his previous seasons, do you agree, Nobunari-san?”

“Very much so. It’s well-known that Katsuki-san had trouble recovering after a poor start, and today’s question is whether or not he can shake the bad taste from his short program and turn in a free skate that will get him on the podium.”

“Do you think he has a chance at gold today?”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

*

“Yuuri,” says Victor as Yuuri skates back to the boards. The crowd lets out a cheer as the previous skater’s scores are revealed. Yuuri resists the urge to ask what they are – it doesn’t matter. “All you need are two quads to get on the podium today.”

Yuuri stares at their clasped hands. _I need all four if I’m going to secure gold._

“You’re being a coach again,” is what he says.

Victor breaths out and runs his free hand through his hair. “All right, you’ve got me. I want you to decrease the number of quads. Honestly, what were you thinking, putting so many in your program? You need to stop working on them, otherwise you might end up better than I am and win gold at Worlds.”

Yuuri’s gaze snaps up to Victor’s face. “Huh?”

Victor shrugs. “I have to get my world record back, _da_? I have my own career to think about. And since I will marry you with or without a gold….”

Victor might look disinterested to anyone else, but Yuuri can see the smile on the edge of his lips.

 _Oh no you don’t_ , thinks Yuuri.

Yuuri leans over the boards to grasp Victor by the back of his neck. He kisses Victor on the lips and presses their foreheads together. He’s sure there’s a television camera on him; he’s equally sure he doesn’t care.

“Keep your eyes on me, Victor Nikiforov.” It’s more growl than anything else. Victor’s eyes light up.

“Always,” promises Victor.

Yuuri squeezes Victor’s hand, and skates to center ice.

*

“And here’s Katsuki Yuuri, skating to _Yuuri on Ice_.”

*

The music begins; Yuuri lifts his hands up to his chest, eyes up to the rafters. The lights are bright, fuzzy stars, and when he looks away, he can see their ghosts floating blue-and-yellow around him.

_The last time I skated this program in front of an audience, I really thought it’d be the last time. Skating it today feels like a gift I didn’t anticipate and I’m not entirely sure what to do with._

*

“And here comes his first jump combination – a quad toe loop, a double toe loop! Beautiful.”

“He did four quads at the Grand Prix final barely two weeks ago, but he’s only planned to do two quads today. That was the first, and it was textbook.”

*

_I know you don’t understand why I need the gold today, Victor – I can’t expect you to understand, it’s been so long since you had to fight for recognition and respect. That’s okay – it’s something I need, not something you do. But I know that my fears about being accepted in Saint Petersburg aren’t unfounded._

*

“And his next jump – a quad Salchow!”

“His second planned quad, and well-done, too.”

“He’s fighting for his place on the podium today, isn’t he, Morooka-san?”

“He is indeed.”

*

_I’m right to fight for this gold, Victor. I have to prove to myself that I’m good enough, that I deserve this opportunity you’re giving me. I’m at the top of my game right now – I don’t know what will happen in Saint Petersburg, but I can’t let the chance to prove my worth go. It might be the only one I get._

*

“And his next jump… a triple flip! He wobbled a little bit on the landing, but otherwise it was clean.”

“He planned a triple toe loop, didn’t he?”

“He did, but he’s changed this jump multiple times this season. I get the feeling that Katsuki-san is pulling out all the stops. Which makes me wonder – is he going to add those last two quads back into the program in the second half?”

*

_Our relationship is going to change in Saint Petersburg. It’s changing already. I can tell you’re turning back into the competitor, and not the coach. And that’s good, I love seeing you on the ice. But as a competitor, you’re not going to be there for me in the same way you have been._

*

“Katsuki-san’s step sequences are some of the best in the business, aren’t they?”

“Yes, and today is no different. He’s clearly very much in the right mindset today.”

*

_I know you’ll always support me as much as you can. You’ll always be my strength. I don’t doubt that for a moment._

_But I know the time is coming when we’ll have to make a choice: what you want, what I want, and what we want for each other, and when those things don’t align anymore – where will that leave us?_

_Who will surge ahead… and who will be left behind?_

*

“And… a quad toe loop! Morooka-san, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I’m thinking he’s giving us all four quads, today, Nobunari-san!”

“Katsuki Yuuri isn’t content with just the podium – he wants that gold medal!”

*

_I don’t know what will happen in Saint Petersburg, Victor. But I hope you understand – if I’m going to survive, I’m going to need more than just you helping me. I’ll always need you – please believe that I will always want you—_

_But the time will come when I can’t depend on you._

*

“And here’s his last jump – will it be a triple Lutz or… a quad flip – it’s the flip! And _oh_! He fell!”

“He had all the rotations, and he got right back up again, but that will be an automatic deduction. The only question is if his presentation score will be enough to secure him the gold.”

*

_Dammit! I didn’t land it._

_If I’ve just screwed up everything we’ve been working towards… if I end up missing the podium… what happens to us then?_

*

“A beautiful performance from Katsuki Yuuri. Listen to that crowd!”

*

Yuuri’s chest is heaving – the air is so cold that it hurts to breathe. It hurts more _not_ to breathe, and Yuuri’s shaken by the sounds of the cheering, shaken by his own thoughts, shaken by the flowers and plushies littering the ice.

He turns to see Victor standing by the boards. He’s too far away to see clearly; Yuuri has no idea if he’s happy or angry or somewhere in between.

_Whatever I’ve just done to my season, I hope you forgive me for it, Victor._

_No. That’s not right. Victor’s my coach. If he’s going to be mad, then he has the right to be mad. But Vitya_ _– the man I’m going to marry – he’s the man whose forgiveness I need._

Yuuri skates toward Victor, unable to look up from the ice at his feet. This time, Victor doesn’t hug him as he steps off the ice.

Instead, he puts his hands on either side of Yuuri’s head and presses their foreheads together. It’s enough to push Yuuri’s breaths faster, tighten the cinch that has a hold on his ribcage and squeeze it until it hurts.

Somewhere, the crowd cheers even louder at this simple sign of affection.

Yuuri still can’t catch his breath, but he reaches up and holds onto Victor’s forearms. Yuuri smiles – shaky, uncertain, and he feels like he’s about to cry – but he smiles anyway.

“You did four quads,” says Victor, his voice so low that it’s almost lost in the cacophony.

“I did,” says Yuuri. “Symmetry. Four. Quads. Seemed like the thing to do.”

“Hmm,” says Victor before he pulls away. His hands stay on Yuuri, though, and his thumb rubs against Yuuri’s cheekbone. It’s comforting. “You were thinking too much on that last quad flip. I told you, you flub your jumps when you have something on your mind.”

“I know,” says Yuuri. It’s such a _relief_ to hear Victor critique him before they’ve even made their way to the kiss-and-cry. “I couldn’t put it off. It was too important.”

Victor cocks his head to the side, thoughtful. “I wonder if you’ll tell me what it was.”

_The time will come when I can’t depend on you. When I’m going to need more than what you’re going to be able to offer…_

Yuuri’s chuckle is hollow, and he knows it. Worse, he knows that Victor knows it. “I… ask me again, at the end of the season.”

_If you even remember. I hope that’s far enough in the future that you won’t._

Victor raises an eyebrow. “All right.”

“Nikiforov-san. Katsuki-san,” says an official apologetically, gesturing to the kiss-and-cry. Victor smiles one last time at Yuuri, presses his hands one last time against his head, and then steps back, catching Yuuri’s hand in his own.

“Might as well find out if we’re getting married or not,” he says cheekily.

Yuuri sucks in a breath as his eyes dart to the television cameras and skating officials around them. “ _Victor._ ”

“Yuuuuri,” complains Victor. “The whole world knows we’re engaged by now. You can call me Vitya in public.”

“Not when you’re supposed to be my _coach_.”

Victor stops and ends up yanking Yuuri’s arm nearly out of his socket. “Hey!” yelps Yuuri, turning just in time to see Victor reach over to pluck a plushie and a bouquet from the pile the little girls have cleared from the ice.

“Yuuri. _Look_.” He turns the plushie back and forth, clearly delighted. “ _Wow_.”

“What is it?” Yuuri can’t make heads or tails of the plushie – it’s more a burgundy-colored blob than anything, with random gemstones tacked on in various places and a golden braid that circles the entire thing like a ribbon, complete with a bow at the top.

But Victor laughs as they walk to the kiss-and-cry. “I think – yes, it does! Here sit down, and let’s see…”

“Do you know what it is?” asks Yuuri as they sit down.

“I think it’s an egg,” says Victor excitedly. “A plush Fabergé egg. Which means it _should_ ….”

Yuuri watches as Victor fumbles with the plushie on his lap. It takes Victor a moment to find a loop that goes around one of the gemstones. When he releases it, he lets out a triumphant cry as the egg falls open to reveal a slightly hollowed out interior.

“It opens!” says Victor, delighted. “I like your fans, Yuuri.”

Yuuri can’t tear his eyes away from the egg’s interior. “Oh,” he breathes as he reaches out to touch it.

The outside of the egg might be decorated with sequins and gemstones, slightly gaudy and ridiculous, but the inside is lined in plain, creamy white, tightly-woven fabric. Someone embroidered various images and scenes: cherry blossoms, words in both kanji and katakana, musical notes that Yuuri can’t read.

It’s the pictures that hold his attention.

Hasetsu Bay. Vicchan. Mount Fuji. The night lights of Tokyo. A torii gate. Hasetsu Castle. A bowl of katsudon, which makes Yuuri laugh.

“Now presenting the scores for Katsuki Yuuri!”

There’s a roar of approval from the crowd. Yuuri should probably look – but he can’t take his eyes away from the egg. The embroidery is beautiful, the colorful threads bright and bold, each perfectly placed, each scene instantly recognizable.

It’s Japan, inside a Russian egg.

_Whoever made this – they understand. They know what I need to hear. I’ll always be Japanese, where it matters. Even if I take on a Russian mantle._

He runs his fingers along the words, the smile on his face growing wider as he reads.

Victor’s arms squeeze around him, rocking him back and forth.

“Yuuri! You’re in _first_!” exclaims Victor.

“Huh?” Yuuri looks up, still dazed. “I… am? I _am_?”

Victor bursts into laughter. “I’m still annoyed that you went all out – completely unnecessary, one day you’ll start listening to me.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri. “Victor, someone _made_ this for me.”

Victor can’t stop laughing. “Yes. Someone did. And I’m sure they’re very happy that you love it so much that you probably don’t even know your scores.”

Victor stands up and holds out his hand. Yuuri takes it, and holds tight to the egg in his arms.

“Right now,” he says, honestly, “I don’t think I even care.”

*

They watch the final two skaters, arm in arm. While both programs are beautiful, they’re equally as flawed as Yuuri’s, and neither have the technical scores to match his four quads.

The moment the final scores are in, Yuuri knows. He squeezes the egg to his chest, closes his eyes, and tries desperately not to cry. Victor is shouting and hugging him and bouncing up and down.

_I did it. I have the gold._

There’s a flurry of people coming up and congratulating him. Yuuri smiles and thanks them and holds tight to the egg, careful to stay close to Victor.

“You really like that egg,” says Victor, pleased, as they wait for the medal ceremony to begin. No one’s bothering them just then, and Yuuri’s grateful for the quiet.

“I do,” he says as he opens it again, because he can’t stop admiring the handiwork inside. “I haven’t seen embroidery this intricate in a long time – my grandmother did work like this.”

“So did mine,” says Victor, resting his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder. “What does it say?”

Yuuri clears his throat and translates the Japanese to English as he reads, running his finger along the letters as if Victor has any hope of following along. “Stay close to me, do not leave. I am afraid to lose you. Our heartbeats are blending together. Let's leave together. I'm ready now.” He shakes his head. “I like it, but I don’t recognize it.”

Victor shifts and presses his face into Yuuri’s shoulder. “ _Wow_. I do.”

“Oh?”

“Katsuki-san,” says an official. “It is time to start the ceremony now.”

“Yes, thank you,” says Yuuri, and he slips out from under Victor’s arm. “What is it?”

Victor is chuckling to himself, staring at the egg. “It’s _Stammi Viccino_. You didn’t know what the Italian meant?”

Yuuri lets out a laugh. “Really? Wow.”

Victor bursts into laughter. He takes the egg from Yuuri and gives him a kiss. “Go. Get your gold.”

“One down, four to go,” says Yuuri with a grin. He can hear Victor’s light-hearted protests behind him; they only help him surge ahead.

*

The press conference is probably the best experience Yuuri has ever had answering invasive and annoyingly repetitive questions.

No one asks about Victor – at least not directly. There are questions about their upcoming relocation to Russia, but they don’t bother Yuuri today. He answers them as easily as if he’d anticipated them.

“Yes, we’ll be leaving in a few days. I’m very excited, it’s a new stage for my career and for Victor’s. I’m excited to see where it takes us both.”

“I am very sorry to leave Japan – I have been so grateful to have the chance to train and compete in my own country for the first time in so long. I know that I would not be sitting here today with a gold medal if it weren’t for being able to reconnect with my family and my home.”

“It’s an egg! There is some beautiful embroidery inside, but it is of a very personal nature to me, and I think I will keep it to myself for now. Whoever made it – please know that I am more grateful for it than words can express. I will treasure it forever. Thank you.”

It’s only when the press conference is ending that one of the reporters jumps up and shouts out a final question:

“Katsuki Yuuri! You won gold today!”

“Yes?” says Yuuri, because wasn’t that the point of him being the subject of a press conference?

“So….” says the reporter, grinning from ear to ear. “ _When’s the wedding!?!?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Rojin (Japanese) – Old man  
> Blyad (Russian) – Damn


	7. To Russia with Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for the title, except I’m not sorry.

Victor dreams on the train back to Hasetsu.

_The snow is coming down thick and soft. They’re outside Saint Petersburg, somewhere in the woods. Everything is white except for the barren trees that reach with spindly arms up into the frosty sky._

_Yuuri walks just ahead of him. His shoes crunch in the snow; it’s the only sound except for the snowflakes, which whisper as they descend._

_Victor tries to catch up – but even though he picks up his pace, and Yuuri’s steps remain steady, he never quite reaches him._

_They walk through the snow. They’ve been walking for years. Victor is tired. He sinks to his knees. Yuuri keeps walking._

_“Yuuri,” he calls out. Yuuri doesn’t turn around._

_From behind him, Yuuri replies._

_“Wait for me!”_

_He turns, and there’s Yuuri, tears streaming down his face, struggling to catch up. He’s dressed in his blue pea-coat, his scarf and hat and gloves lost somewhere in Hasetsu._

_Victor reaches for him, but their fingers, so close, don’t touch. Victor is cold. Victor is tired. Victor wants to sleep…._

The train jerks and Victor’s eyes open.

“Huh?” he says, blinking as he sits up. Yuuri is a heavy weight against his arm as he scrolls through his phone.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Yuuri says as Victor sits up. “We’re only about ten minutes away from home now.”

“Okay,” says Victor, his head still fuzzy. His head and shoulder are cold where they press against the window, and he shifts to get away from the glass. Yuuri settles back down, warm and welcome, shoulder-to-shoulder with Victor as he continues to look at his phone.

It’s approaching midnight; Victor’s birthday will be over soon. Victor almost regrets that they didn’t remain in Tokyo for an extra night. He feels like he’s been on the train for years.

 _Almost_. All he really wants now is to collapse in his bed with Yuuri. _Their_ bed. And _sleep_ , possibly until his next birthday.

 _What did you dream last night, moy miliy?_ His mother’s voice, warm and low and loving. 

_Ice, Mama – a whole sea of ice, between here and everywhere, and I was the first to skate on it!_

Victor closes his eyes. The train rocks back and forth; if he’s not careful, he’ll fall back into the dream. All he remembers is the last few minutes, reaching out for Yuuri who had fallen so far behind. He knows there was more… there was so much more to it, but it’s already fading.

_Pay attention to your birthday dreams, Viten’ka. They’ll tell you things that your dreams the rest of the year won’t._

“Oh, that’s pretty,” says Yuuri. Victor opens his eyes as Yuuri shows Victor the picture on his phone. It’s from Christophe’s Instagram account. Geneva, all lit up for Christmas, and a particularly festive tree bursting with color. “It reminds me of Barcelona.”

“Mmm,” says Victor. The tree is pretty, but Victor prefers the memory of Barcelona’s Christmas market. He reaches for Yuuri’s hand and rubs his thumb against the ring on Yuuri’s finger. Yuuri’s hand is loose in his, cool fingers gently curling around Victor’s hand. The ring hasn’t lost its shine just yet, but Victor can already see a few scratch marks on the previously smooth surface.

For some reason, they’re comforting. A reminder that whatever they have together, it’s _permanent_.

 _You’re only a dream,_ Victor tells the fading image of Yuuri, lost in the snow, and shoves it further back into his head.

He burrows a little deeper into Yuuri and keeps his voice light. “I have a definite preference for Barcelona’s decorations, and a disturbing feeling about why you have Christophe’s Instagram on your feed.”

Yuuri blushes. “He takes nice pictures.”

“That’s one way of phrasing it.”

Yuuri elbows him lightly in the stomach and scrolls some more. He stops on a picture of Yurio, scowling at the camera. “What’s it say? I can’t read the Russian.”

“ _Yeshche chetyre dnya_ ,” reads Victor. “Four more days.” He chuckles. “A countdown until we arrive, maybe.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised that he looks so annoyed,” admits Yuuri. He falls silent, still looking at the picture. “That’s your home rink, isn’t it?”

“ _Da_. Yubileynyy rink, in the _Sportivnyy dvorets Chempionov_.” Yuuri elbows him a little in the stomach and Victor chuckles. “Ah… sports palace of champions? It sounds better in Russian.”

Yuuri’s seen pictures of the training space before; when he’d been younger, he’d even imagined what it would be like to skate there with Victor. Looking at Yurio’s post now and realizing that in a few short days, he really _is_ going to train there with Victor at his side - it’s enough to give Yuuri’s stomach an excited twist.

“It looks nice,” says Yuuri. “I like all the windows. The Ice Castle never has a lot of natural light. It’ll be nice to skate in sunlight.”

“Wait until summer, _solnyshko_ ,” says Victor mildly. “It warms up so much you want to skate in shorts and a tank top. Which is a wonderful idea until you fall.”

Yuuri chuckles. “If you say so.” He keeps scrolling. “Mom’s planning a birthday dinner for you tomorrow. That’s all right, isn’t it? I looked it up, I couldn’t find anything saying that celebrating your birthday a day late is bad.”

Victor smiles. “It’s not. Just before.”

“She wasn’t sure if you wanted a cake.”

“I’d rather have katsudon.” Victor pulls Yuuri closer to him, hoping Yuuri understands that he’s not talking about actual pork cutlet bowls. He nuzzles Yuuri’s neck to further get the point across.

“I’ll tell her – _oh_.” Yuuri sits up, eyes wide. “Victor. I won. I get _katsudon_.”

Victor laughs. “You just realized?”

“I’ve been busy!” protests Yuuri. He glances up when staticky Japanese starts blaring through the speakers; the conductor is making an announcement. “Not until tomorrow, though. All I really want now is _bed_.”

“Yes,” agrees Victor. He’s too tired to bother with additional innuendo, especially since Yuuri let the katsudon comment slide. Judging from the sheepish, embarrassed smile on Yuuri’s face, he’s on the same page, anyway.

It’s another hour before the family straggles into Yu-topia Hasetsu, having stopped at the kennel along the way to pick up Makkachin. The inn is mostly dark, except for a few well-placed lights at the entrance. It’s the first time in years that Yuuri’s parents closed the inn so they could see their son compete in Nationals. Victor knows Yuuri still can’t believe they went to such lengths, just for him.

_I would wonder why they never did it before - but given how much Yuuri protested when they proposed coming, I think I know why. If my being here convinced them to change their minds about listening to him, then it was worth not attending Russian Nationals._

Hiroko bustles ahead, turning on lights, checking the thermostats, talking to herself about what might serve as a good snack before they all turn in. Toshiya goes straight for the onsen, worried about how his baths have fared in their absence.

Mari stretches and yawns. “I’m going to bed. If either of you wake me for any reason before 8am, I’m going to dump a bucket of snow on you in your sleep.”

“Mari-neechan,” says Yuuri. He sounds a little awkward, but Victor can’t tell if it’s because he’s exhausted or just emotional. “I… thank you. For coming to see me.”

Mari smiles a little bit. “You did good, little brother.” She turns to Victor. “Just remember who’s on the other side of your wall tonight.”’

“ _Mari-neechan_!” Yuuri’s voice is high-pitched with horror and guilt. Victor chuckles as Mari heads upstairs to her room.

“Come on,” says Victor. He takes Yuuri by the arm and leads him up as well. “Unless you want to eat first?”

“No,” says Yuuri with a yawn. “Oh, wait – help me with these?”

Yuuri reaches down and picks up not just his bag, but one of his parents’ as well. Smiling, Victor follows with the other two. They leave them outside Hiroko and Toshiya’s door, and then continue down the hall. When Yuuri pauses outside Victor’s door, Victor gives him a nudge to keep going.

“Your room tonight,” he says. “Mari has an excellent point.”

Yuuri blushes, but keeps going.

Yuuri turns on the desk lamp. They don’t bother unpacking; they just strip down to their boxers and undershirts, shivering in the cold before slipping into the bed. Makkachin hops up and settles herself on their lower legs, while Yuuri snuggles into Victor’s arms.

“Happy birthday, Vitya,” mumbles Yuuri, mostly asleep. Victor closes his eyes and remembers the last few days in an out-of-order montage: Yuuri’s free skate, the quiet of the practice rink in the moment before he showed Yuuri his still shaky short program. The rush of Tokyo and its blaring lights, the soft thrill of seeing Yuuri’s Russian visa in his passport, the reporters clamoring with questions for Victor, the proud joy on Hiroko and Toshiya’s faces when they hugged Yuuri after the medal ceremony.

“Yes,” he says, satisfied, “it was.”

*

The next two days pass in a flurry.

There is katsudon for lunch and a birthday cake for dessert.

“I looked it up, the website _said_ this was traditional,” says Yuuko. She sounds doubtful, which is appropriate since the cake itself looks doubtful. There’s too much icing on too little cake and the entire thing is either burnt on the edges or raw in the middle. The candles can’t even manage to stay upright.

“ _Vkusno_ ,” proclaims Victor. The cake is far too sweet, has a mouthfeel like sawdust, contains a ridiculous amount of cherries, and is just generally terrible. Victor tries to eat as much as he can before Yuuri takes it away.

“You’re going to die if you eat more of it,” he whispers in Victor’s ear.

“I’m more afraid of what Takeshi will do if I hurt Yuuko’s feelings,” Victor whispers back.

Despite their planning, there are more boxes to pack and mail. The people in Hasetsu keep coming by the inn to say goodbye, to wish Yuuri luck, and most importantly, to heap charms and amulets and other small things onto them that obviously mean more to Yuuri than they do to Victor. Yuuri insists on packing every single one. It’s the same when they go out on their last morning run – every single person has a word or a gift for Yuuri, and he stops and accepts each farewell and present with grace and humility.

Victor sits back and watches, unable to stop smiling. When they turn to him and continue their heart-felt goodbyes, he flushes and finds himself stammering over the simple Japanese words he’d managed to say effortlessly only a few weeks before.

“I thought you were good with your fans,” Yuuri teases him when they’re alone again.

“With _my_ fans, sure. These are _your_ fans.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “They’re not fans, they’re my neighbors.”

“Yuuri, they love you,” says Victor. “You’re the local celebrity.”

“They… know me,” says Yuuri, a bit confused. “I grew up here, remember. They remember me from when I was in diapers. I’m not a _celebrity_. That’s you!”

Victor disagrees; he knows celebrity. He’s been considered a celebrity in Saint Petersburg for the last six or seven years, easily. He’s about to say so when Yuuri is interrupted yet again. Victor watches with a smile as Yuuri accepts another charm wrapped in colorful cloth.

“Forget a gold medal bathroom,” Victor says. “We could tile one with all of those.”

Yuuri clutches the charm to his chest. “ _Victor_. You can’t – this is _special_.”

“And a gold medal isn’t?”

“It’s…” Yuuri frowns, thinking. “Holy. That’s the word. Religious.”

“Oh,” says Victor, a bit wrong-footed. “I… sorry.”

“You didn’t know.” Yuuri looks at the charm. “It’s an _ofuda_. A talisman. You’re supposed to keep them on your altar at home.”

“I see.” Victor glances at Yuuri. It’s not that religion makes him _uncomfortable_ , exactly – he’s admired the altar the Katsukis keep, and he knows Yuuri visits it from time to time. It just never occurred to him that Yuuri might want one in Saint Petersburg as well. “Did you… want an altar?”

Yuuri’s clearly hesitant to say. “I… maybe? I know you’re not religious, and I don’t want to impose—”

“There’s plenty of room, if you’re worried—”

“No, it’s just – it’s your apartment, I don’t want—”

“Yuuri,” Victor interrupts him gently. “It’s your home, too. If you want one, we’ll find a place for one.”

Yuuri blushes and stammers a little, holding the _ofuda_ in his hand. “I… thank you. Phichit and I had one in Detroit. It doesn’t have to be very big, but… yes. I’d like that.”

“Then you’ll have one.” Victor’s eyes light up; the prospect of shopping is never a terrible one. “We should get what we’ll need for it here, I don’t know if we’ll be able to find the supplies in Saint Petersburg.”

“I have most of it now,” says Yuuri, still embarrassed. “Everyone here has been very kind.”

On their last afternoon, they skip the gym and instead take Makkachin to the beach to let her run up and down the sand. It’s too cold to swim, but the seagulls screech overhead when Victor throws bits of stale bread to them. The birds ignore the bread and complain that he’s not throwing fish.

Yuuri sits back on his elbows near the tracks, closes his eyes, and breathes.

Victor thinks he knows why and leaves him be.

It’s nearing sunset when Victor finally calls Makkachin back to them. She’s covered in sand, smells like dead crab, and is the happiest he’s ever seen her.

“She’ll be fine on the flight, won’t she?” asks Yuuri as they walk home.

“The vet says she’s healthy as a horse,” says Victor, because it doesn’t bear thinking otherwise. “But I think this should be her last trip. She’s getting old to go through the stresses of airline travel, and it’s a very long flight.”

Yuuri scratches Makkachin behind the ears. Victor’s glad he doesn’t repeat the offer Toshiya had made a week before when they announced their plans. He knows the Katsukis love Makkachin and would take excellent care of her until she’s gone… but he won’t leave her behind. When he explained why, Hiroko patted him on the cheek, smiling, eyes brimming with tears.

“I understand,” she said. “Of course, you should take her with you.”

“Do you think she knows about tomorrow?” asks Yuuri.

“No,” says Victor. “Yes. I don’t know. She’s used to us going away, but I’m not sure she realizes she’s coming with us this time.”

Yuuri reaches over to take Victor’s hand. “I’m not sure I really believe we’re leaving.”

Victor squeezes back. “Me neither.”

*

The morning of the 28th, Yuuri wakes before sunrise – but this time, there’s no run to meet the fishing boats. He turns his head on the pillow to look at Victor, sure he’ll have to shake him awake, as he always does.

He’s surprised to see Victor looking back at him.

“Good morning,” whispers Victor.

“Good morning,” Yuuri whispers back.

Victor reaches for him. The kiss is sweet and sleepy, but already Yuuri can feel the churning in his gut, the strange heaviness he always feels when he travels. The little voice in the back of his mind that reminds him of all the planes that disappear over the ocean, all the ways the day could go wrong, all the things he’s forgotten to pack.

“You’re tense,” says Victor into the kiss.

“Only a little,” admits Yuuri. Victor is warm, a comfortable weight. Yuuri’s all too aware that this is the last morning in Hasetsu with Makkachin at their feet. They’ll come back – but it’ll never be quite the same.

There’s a gentle knock on the door. “Yuuri? Victor?” calls Mari softly.

“Coming,” Yuuri calls back.

“ _Ew_! I didn’t need to know that!”

She’s teasing – but Yuuri giggles anyway as the flush rises in his cheeks. Victor laughs softly and kisses him again.

“No time,” he says regretfully. “Are you ready?”

_No. Maybe. No._

“Yeah,” says Yuuri.

Everything happens in a sort of daze. Takeshi arrives in a large rented van with a cheerful smile. Victor helps him load the van with their suitcases, trunks, and Makkachin’s crate. Hiroko feeds everyone with whatever she can manage to put in their hands. Yuuri is trying to bear the thought of eating the sandwich roll she pressed on him when Victor takes him by the hand.

“Help me with the last bag?”

“Sure,” says Yuuri blearily.

Victor’s backpack is the only thing left in Victor’s room. Yuuri frowns at it. “You needed help with your backpack?”

“Yes,” says Victor firmly. He sits on the bed and tugs Yuuri down next to him, wrapping his arms around Yuuri in a tight hold. “Just… sit here with me a moment.”

It’s quiet and dark in the room. Yuuri can hear the faint sounds of his family, bustling around downstairs as they prepare to head for the airport. Yuuri can feel the moments slipping away faster and faster, entirely too conscious of the time they have left in Hasetsu disappearing with increasing speed.

Yuuri tries to stand. “Vitya, I—”

“Shh.” Victor presses his mouth and nose to Yuuri’s head. “Sorry. Just… I wanted you with me this time.”

 _Oh_. Yuuri’s traveled with Victor a few times now, and every time, Victor’s always disappeared in the last moments before they leave. Every time he reappears, his backpack slung over a shoulder, with a sheepish but calm smile, saying, “Was I holding you up? I needed to sit for a moment.”

 _A Russian thing, or a Victor thing?_ wonders Yuuri. It doesn’t really matter.

The quiet moment is nice. Yuuri closes his eyes and lets himself breathe in the softness, the feel of Victor’s arms around him, the familiar scent and sound of the onsen where he grew up.

_I’ll come back. I’ll come back much sooner this time. I won’t make that mistake again._

The knot is tight in his throat when Victor finally stands.

“Are you ready to go?” he asks, pulling Yuuri to his feet.

 _No_ , thinks Yuuri, but nods anyway.

Mari says her goodbyes from the front steps of the inn, hugging first Victor and then Yuuri.

“I love you,” she says into Yuuri’s ear. “Don’t you fucking take so long to come back this time.”

Yuuri laughs and cries and hugs his sister tight. “Okay. I’ll see you at Worlds.”

“You better believe it,” Mari promises.

Yuuri watches Hasetsu slip away. He’s said his goodbyes to Minako and Yuuko and the triplets, but he can’t help but seek out their homes, look for lights in the windows, wonder if they’re awake, aware that he’s getting further and further away.

Makkachin whimpers at his feet and rests her heavy head on his knee. Yuuri’s hand automatically goes to scratch behind her ears – and his fingers find Victor’s hand, already there.

He doesn’t even look over. He breathes, his last deep breath of Hasetsu’s air, and as his fingers rest alongside Victor’s, watches as his home disappears into the distance.

*

Victor and Takeshi take over unloading at Fukuoka Airport. It takes two carts to carry everything, including the still-empty crate for Makkachin.

“I’ll hold her,” Yuuri offers, and keeps the leash tight in his hands. Makkachin doesn’t even notice; she pants, sitting next to Yuuri’s legs, never straying very far, never taking her eyes off Victor, who pushes one cart of bags while Takeshi pushes the other. The carts are horrible, the wheels go everywhere, and Victor curses in every language he knows as he tries to keep the cart going straight.

They check in, get their boarding passes, and then Yuuri gets on a bended knee to say goodbye to Makkachin before Victor takes her to the security check, where she’ll at last be consigned to her crate.

“See you soon, Makkachin,” says Yuuri. He buries his face in Makkachin’s neck before standing up again. His eyes are red and his face is pale. Victor wants to pull him in for a hug. Already Yuuri’s parents look extremely fragile, and Makkachin is beginning to whine as she realizes what’s happening.

Baggage security moves too fast for Victor’s preference. They’re extremely efficient and have all the suitcases and trunks off the carts before either Takeshi or Victor have pulled up to a complete stop.

“Sir, you need to crate your dog,” one man says very apologetically. Victor nods shortly, before kneeling down in front of Makkachin. He unsnaps the leash while Takeshi sets the crate on the cart behind him, so that the baggage security personnel can use it to move Makkachin safely.

“Okay, Makkachin,” Victor whispers to her. “Last time, I promise. We’re going home for good today. Be good for the flight, yeah? I’ll see you in Saint Petersburg.”

He presses his face into her neck and breathes in deep. He thinks he can still smell Hasetsu Bay on her skin. It probably won’t be there by the time they arrive in Russia.

“We’ll take care of her,” the baggage personnel assure him.

“I know,” says Victor, but his eyes track the crate as it rolls away.

Takeshi stands next to him, his hands in his pockets. “She’s a good dog.”

“Yes,” says Victor shortly. He doesn’t much want to talk right now, but either Takeshi can’t take a hint, or he just doesn’t want to hear it.

“This is where I’m supposed to give you the speech, you know,” says Takeshi.

Victor huffs a little. “What speech?”

“Oh, you know. Don’t break his heart, or I’ll break your legs. Don’t elope to Vegas, make sure you bring him home once in a while. Be good to him. That speech.”

Victor smirks. “Yes. That speech.”

“I figure,” says Takeshi, as Makkachin’s crate disappears from view, “that all I need to do is remind you that I know how to work the Zamboni. And the blade sharpener.”

Victor’s heart is in a vise. But he chuckles softly and turns to Takeshi, hand outstretched.

“Noted,” he says. “Thank you, Nishigori-san.”

Takeshi’s hand is warm and strong in Victor’s. “You’re welcome. Also, you really thought you’d get away with a _handshake_?”

When Takeshi pulls him in for the hug, Victor’s arms flail for a moment.

“Wow,” he says, laughing, and hugs Takeshi back.

*

The flight from Fukuoka to Tokyo is smooth. Yuuri’s eyes are still red and he’s a little bit sniffly, but Victor knows better than to try to comfort him just yet. Anyway, Yuuri falls asleep before they’ve even left the tarmac, but Victor can’t keep his eyes closed for longer than a few seconds.

He spends the whole flight completely convinced that he can hear Makkachin howling the whole way. It’s impossible, of course. Knowing it’s impossible doesn’t help.

The transfer in Tokyo is just as easy. They have enough time to find their next gate, use the facilities, and browse the duty-free for things they don’t want and don’t need and don’t buy. Victor confirms that the flight crew knows Makkachin should be on the plane, and still watches until he can see her crate arrive plane-side before being loaded with the rest of the bags, somewhere under the pilots.

He breathes a sigh of relief once she’s on board, and Yuuri brushes up against him.

“Almost there,” says Yuuri.

“Yuuri, we’re in _coach_ ,” says Victor mournfully, thinking of his shrunken frequent flyer account.

“Mmm,” says Yuuri. “Yes, coach is going to be terrible after first class. Well, come on. Let’s board.”

“I can’t believe you’re so eager to get on the plane,” grumbles Victor.

“Mmm,” repeats Yuuri as he hands the tickets to the flight attendant.

They’re not in coach.

“It’s not first class,” Yuuri apologizes when Victor sees their business-class seats. “I don’t have that many frequent flyer miles, but…”

Victor doesn’t even care. He kisses Yuuri quickly, sheds his coat, and sits down in his seat.

“No center console,” he says happily, and then turns to Yuuri and waggles his eyebrows. “ _Yuuu-ri_. There’s something I’ve always wanted to try.”

“No,” says Yuuri, smiling. Victor’s sure he can convince Yuuri otherwise. It’s a very long flight.

*

They’re somewhere over Russia, which has little meaning when the entire flight is somewhere over Russia, when Victor says, “I should teach you Russian.”

Yuuri pulls one of the earbuds from his ears; even with the paper face mask, Victor can tell he looks sheepish. “Oh. Um. I’ve already started trying to learn.”

Victor’s mouth drops open even as he starts to grin. “What? Yuuri, are you keeping _secrets_ from me?”

“No! No no no! Mom and Dad got me a computer program,” explains Yuuri. “I’ve been trying to do a little bit every day.”

Victor is too delighted to be insulted by the thought of Yuuri skipping him and going straight to an impersonal computer program. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

“What, now?”

“We could wait until you’ve been in Russia for a week, if you’d rather.”

Yuuri pokes him in the stomach. “ _Fine._ Um. Do-bray oo-tra.”

Victor laughs. Yuuri’s accent is _adorable_ , but if Victor tells him that, he’ll probably stop using Russian for a week. “ _Dobroe utro_ , Yuuri. _Kak dela?_ ” 

“Um. Harrah show?”

“ _Khorosho_ ,” confirms Victor. “ _Menya zovut Victor Andreyevich Nikiforov_.” 

“Andreyevich?” asks Yuuri. “Oh – that’s your patronymic. I read about those. I never heard you use it, though.”

“I don’t, outside of Russia. Did you learn _ochen’ priyatno_?”

“Nice to meet you,” translates Yuuri.

“Yes. Remember that one and you’ll charm everyone you meet.”

Yuuri is quiet for a moment. Victor wants to reassure him – of course everyone will be charmed by Yuuri. He’s not entirely sure Yuuri believes it.

“Vitya?”

“Hmm?”

Yuuri takes his hand. “ _Spasibo._ ”

Victor isn’t sure why Yuuri is thanking him. He’s the one who’s leaving everything behind.

But if Yuuri says it – then he finds thanks necessary.

“ _Pozhaluysta_ ,” says Victor.

*

It’s dark when they land in Saint Petersburg and it’s barely five in the evening.

Yuuri stares out the plane’s window at Pulkovo International Airport. It’s beautiful, a long silver line with circular skylights like bottle tops rising out of the terminals. It looks sleek and modern, like most other airports Yuuri’s flown in and out of for one competition or another.

His heart doesn’t normally hammer like this, though, when he’s arriving somewhere for a competition. Well – it hammers, but that doesn’t happen until he’s on the ice.

He’s jet-lagged and exhausted. Sleep proved mostly impossible on the flight from Tokyo, though Victor had been able to doze while Yuuri watched terrible American sitcoms dubbed into Russian, in hopes of becoming more accustomed to the language. Instead, he missed every joke and found his mind wandering to what his parents and Mari were doing at home, trying to figure out what time it was and if they’d be sitting down to dinner, or getting up from lunch, or going to sleep for the night.

It’s a long ride to the gate, followed by a never-ending wait to disembark the plane. They’re inside the terminal briefly on their way to a bus that will take them to Customs. It’s during the short outdoor walk between the terminal and the bus that Yuuri catches his first breath of a Saint Petersburg winter, and it’s so bitterly cold that he thinks his entire body is about to collapse in on itself. Even though his facemask keeps the trapped air a little bit warmer, it feels like he’s breathing in ice-cold helium.

“I should have brought my other coat,” says Yuuri as the bus jerks and sways.

Victor frowns, clutching one of the overhead bars. “This one is much warmer.”

“Yes. I want to wear both of them.”

Victor laughs. Yuuri’s envious; if Yuuri is exhausted, Victor is euphoric, looking around with bright and shining eyes, drinking in every overheard conversation and every smattering of Cyrillic on the posters and advertisements that surround them.

It’s a long bus ride and then another long walk to passport control. Yuuri begins to wonder why they didn’t just walk to Saint Petersburg in the first place; it feels like they’re doing it now.

“I’ll meet you on the other side of passport control,” Victor promises. Yuuri blanches and comes to dead stop in the middle of the hallway. People stream around them, so bleary with exhaustion that no one even grumbles as Yuuri blocks the flow of traffic.

_Oh no. I’m really doing this. I’m really going to live in Russia. I’m going to train with the Russian National team. I’m going to see Yakov and Yurio every single day and live in Victor’s apartment and navigate all the politics of the Senior Circuit and speak in Russian and…._

Yuuri stares up at the sign above the corridor so long that the letters go blurry.

“Yuuri?” says Victor, worry creasing his brow.

Yuuri blinks; the sign swims into focus again. Cyrillic, English, and…

“Huh?” says Yuuri, eyes narrowing as he stares at the hanzi. “ _Chinese_?”

Victor glances up at the sign. “Oh, I forgot that was there. Can you read it?”

“Sort of,” says Yuuri, squinting. “Just… I didn’t expect to see hanzi here.”

“Good. Maybe I won’t have to worry about losing you in passport control,” says Victor with a smile. He tugs a little on Yuuri’s hand - but Yuuri still doesn’t move.

 _Passport control - oh, no. They still have to let me in_.

“I forgot,” Yuuri stammers.

Victor raises an eyebrow. “Yuuri, it’s the same in Japan. One line for citizens, one line for foreigners.”

“No. I forgot my _Russian_.”

Victor might have been euphoric and excited on the bus - but Yuuri can see the dark circles under his eyes, the way he’s holding himself stiffly, folded over in an airline seat for too long and unable to straighten out again. He laughs gently at Yuuri - but he sounds hoarse, exhausted, anxious. The last thing Victor needs is for Yuuri to have a panic attack outside passport control when they’re so close to being _done_.

 _At least I can still make him laugh_ , thinks Yuuri desperately. _He won’t leave me at the airport if I can make him laugh, will he?_

“You seem to remember English. They’ll speak that, probably.”

_Yes. English. I remember English. Good. I don’t think I remember anything else._

“Okay,” says Yuuri. He’s too tired to keep being nervous about it.

_How hard can this be? They probably get foreigners who don’t speak Russian every day of the week._

The immigration officers do speak English, but Yuuri gathers his courage and says, “ _Spasibo_ ” anyway as he takes his stamped passport back.

The guard’s eyes immediately brighten. “ _Dobro pozhalovat' v Sankt-Petersburg_.”

“ _Spasibo_ ,” says Yuuri, almost shocked to his skin that he said it well enough to be understood. When he finds Victor waiting for him near baggage claim, he’s riding on a wave of elated pride.

“I remembered,” he tells Victor.

“Good. You look for our bags, I’ll rescue Makkachin.”

Yuuri’s still waiting for the last bag when Victor returns, triumphant, with a rocking dog crate on a pushcart. Makkachin sees Yuuri and the crate shakes so much, Yuuri’s afraid it’ll tumble to the ground. He kneels down in front of it and shoves his fingers through the grate so that Makkachin can lick them happily.

“She’s fine,” he says, relieved.

“Of course,” says Victor. Yuuri knows it’s a front, because he can see the relief in Victor’s face.

Their last bag arrives, they shuffle through Customs, and then they’re spit out into the general population of the airport, busy and bustling and a mix of Cyrillic, English, and even more hanzi which probably should be more comforting than it is. The waiting area is crowded with people, most of whom look bored except for the brief moments when the doors open and another set of exhausted passengers come streaming out of immigration. There are the ubiquitous bored-looking limo drivers carrying signs written in Cyrillic and English and kanji and every other language under the sun. There’s grandmothers in bulky coats with sweaters peeking out from under the hem, and tiny children high on sugar who try to use the bolted-down seats as hurdles. There’s even a set of teenagers, young and beautiful and only mildly interested in what’s going on around them, though they keep looking over at Yuuri and Victor, as if they recognize but can’t quite place the pair.

“There,” says Victor, and he takes off, pushing his cart across the terminal. Yuuri follows with another cart loaded to the absolute limit. He’s exhausted and running on the muscle memory of a thousand overseas trips for one competition or another. Saint Petersburg might be new but the process of collecting luggage and finding a driver and going to the hotel, that’s familiar.

 _Not a hotel, though_ , Yuuri remembers. _Victor’s apartment. Victor’s home._

Yuuri’s so tired, he can’t even work up the energy for a panic attack about that.

He’s only barely aware of Victor talking in rapid Russian to a man in a suit and tie who is definitely not Yakov or Yurio or anyone Yuuri recognizes.

“Okay, let’s go,” says Victor as soon as Yuuri joins them.

“I thought Yakov would pick us up,” says Yuuri.

“Of course not. They’re at the rink. Besides, that’s what the driver is for,” explains Victor.

There’s a car waiting by the curb, and while the driver loads the bags, Victor lets Makkachin out of the crate. She immediately makes a bee-line for a convenient patch of grass; Yuuri’s never seen her look so happy for something that’s more dirt and dead vegetation than _grass_. The driver takes a moment out of talking to Yuuri in incomprehensible Russian to give Victor a plastic bag to scoop up the poop.

“I had such illusions about you being a celebrity,” says Yuuri, watching him.

“Hmph,” says Victor, his mouth a thin line.

It’s a long drive from the airport into the city; Yuuri settles into the back of the car and closes his eyes almost immediately, while Makkachin settles on the floor at his feet. Victor leans over the front seat to talk to the driver, rapid-fire Russian filling the car over the music on the radio.

“Don’t fall asleep, Yuuri!” Victor cautions him.

“I won’t,” Yuuri assures him, but he dozes anyway. It’s impossible to tell how much time goes by - Yuuri’s only conscious of the movement of the car and the softness of Makkachin’s fur under his hand. Every time he opens his eyes, they’re still driving, still no sign of the city, just never-ending night and traffic lights surrounding them.

It could be minutes. It could be hours. It’s only when Victor’s voice takes on a more excited tone that Yuuri shakes off the lethargy and tries to sit up.

They’re surrounded by buildings.

 _We’re here_ , thinks Yuuri, too tired to feel relief. Maybe the nap was useful after all, though, because Yuuri finds himself perking up as he stares out the window at his new home.

Saint Petersburg is surprisingly _pretty_. It doesn’t look anything like Moscow’s drab grey-and-blocky Soviet buildings, although there are some of those too. Mostly, it looks quaintly European, pastel colors with delicate, architectural touches. Twinkling fairy lights shine brightly on the buildings and trees, as if the city is proud to show itself off. Even in the dark, Yuuri is enchanted.

He catches glimpses of a cathedral, and at one point, it’s directly ahead of him. Yuuri can’t help but lean into the center of the car, staring.

“ _Tserkovʹ Spasa na Krovi_ ,” says the driver.

“Oh,” says Yuuri. He glances at Victor for a translation, which Victor readily supplies.

“Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri again. It’s a very different _oh_. “That’s… nice.”

Victor chuckles. “It’s a museum now, but it’s beautiful inside. We’ll go look sometime if you want.”

“All right,” says Yuuri. The car turns so that he can’t see the cathedral any longer. The driver says something else.

“He wants to know if we’re hungry,” Victor translates again. “Do you want to stop and get something to eat?”

“I… have no idea,” says Yuuri.

“Me neither. Let’s go home. Marina stocked the kitchen for us. We should even have food for Makkachin.” Victor rubs Makkachin’s neck.

The car crosses over a bridge and into what appears to be a more residential area of town. It finally pulls up to a sleek-looking apartment building – but it’s Makkachin’s reaction that really tells Yuuri they’ve arrived in the right place. She’s wriggling from foot to foot, and practically crawls over Victor in an effort to get to the door first.

“Okay, okay,” laughs Victor as he throws open the door to let Makkachin out. “Come on, Yuuri, Pavel will bring up the bags.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri. With an apologetic glance at Pavel – who doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed at the lack of help – he goes after Victor and Makkachin, who is happily relieving herself on a stretch of grass and shrubbery just outside the front doors.

“She’s allowed to do that, right?”

“Not usually,” says Victor happily. “But today—”

A uniformed man comes barreling out the front doors, shouting in Russian. He fits every stereotype of a large Russian man that Yuuri has ever encountered: a chest that is more a barrel than a torso, arms as thick as small children, powerful legs that could probably squash Yuuri flat, and the bushiest beard Yuuri has ever seen on anyone.

Yuuri is completely convinced that the man is going to pick up all three of them in one sweep and throw them clear to the river – when he sees Victor and comes to a dead halt.

“ _Victor Andreyevich Nikiforov_!” the man shouts, turning from angry to joyful on a hair. Yuuri watches in amazement while the large bear of a man throws his arms around Victor, who grunts as all the wind is forcibly pushed out of his lungs. “ _Vy doma! Eto zamechatel'no! Davaite prazdnovat’! U menya gde-to est’ butylka vodki!_ ”

“ _Spasibo_ , Dmitri Ivanovich,” gasps Victor. He’s put back on the ground and patted on the head. “Thank you for the offer, but I must decline for tonight. We’ve had a long flight.”

Dmitiri Ivanovich peers at Yuuri. “This him?” His English is heavily accented, and clearly not even close to fluent, but it’s understandable enough.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” says Victor. “Or Yuuri Katsuki – sorry, Yuuri.”

“It’s fine,” says Yuuri, because it is. Five years in Detroit was enough to get over the odd feeling it gives him to hear his names reversed. _Though it was nice to hear Victor say it in the right order - as if he thinks of it that way, too._ “ _Ochen’ priyatno_ , Dmitri Ivanovich.”

Dimitri Ivanovich’s hand comes up to cover his heart. “He speaks Russian! Victor Andreyevich, I like him.”

“So do I,” laughs Victor.

“And this lovely lady,” continues Dmitri Ivanovich. He settles his large hand on Makkachin’s head. “But it is too cold out here for her. Take her inside. Warm her up. Let me know what you need, I will get it for you.”

“ _Spasibo_ , Dimitri Ivanovich,” says Victor warmly. Dmitri Ivanovich shakes both of their hands. Yuuri thinks his arm might fall off.

“Who was that?” Yuuri asks Victor as they head up the elevator.

“The doorman,” says Victor, patting his pockets.

“Does everyone always use your patronymic like that?” asks Yuuri, suddenly worried he’s been accidentally insulting Victor for the past year.

“No, he’s just from a generation who thinks it’s rude to leave them off,” explains Victor. “I think… did you see if Pavel went upstairs? I don’t have the key.”

The elevator doors open – and Yuuri can see their bags and boxes and everything sitting in the hall, as light spills out of an open doorway. “I think we’re okay,” he says as Pavel comes out, grabs another suitcase, and drags it inside.

Makkachin races down the hall, skids at the door as she turns, and is in the apartment like a flash.

“Oh, no,” groans Victor. He hurries after her, leaving Yuuri alone. “Makkachin! No jumping on the furniture until I’ve washed off your paws!”

The corridor looks like any other corridor in any other apartment building in the world. There’s perhaps a few more locks on the doors than Yuuri would expect in a building with a doorman. It’s somewhat run-down, too, with scuffed walls and a threadbare carpet. The lights are yellow with age, and there aren't many of them, either. But everything is perfectly clean, not a speck of dust anywhere. There are only four doors on the entire floor, and one of them has the international sign for _Exit_ – so three apartments total.

The other two doors are closed tight, and Yuuri can’t hear much of anything from inside. There’s decorations on the doors, though, undoubtedly put up for the coming holidays, and small nameplates with Cyrillic letters next to the buzzers on the door jams. They look lived-in, comfortable, even friendly - very much unlike the plain, unadorned door leading into Victor’s apartment, where the nameplate is blank.

_He said he’s lived here for a few years, though. Why wouldn’t he have put his name up?_

Pavel ducks out of the apartment to grab the last of the bags. He raises his eyebrows at Yuuri, but doesn’t say a word.

“Um. _Spasibo_ ,” says Yuuri, wondering if he should have carried in the last bag.

“Yuuri!” calls Victor from inside. “Did you get lost?”

“I’m here,” says Yuuri, takes a deep breath, and steps inside.

The hallway might have been industrial and run-down, but Victor’s apartment itself is beautiful, all stainless steel and the expensive IKEA furniture, clean lines and open spaces. It smells like lemon and tea tree oil, and there’s not a speck of dust or any sign of neglect, despite how long Victor’s been absent.

 _That’s the advantage of a housekeeper, I guess_ , thinks Yuuri, right before he nearly trips over the pair of shoes in the doorway, which he instantly recognizes as Victor’s. It only takes a moment for Yuuri to notice another pair, undoubtedly belonging to Pavel, who is in his stocking feet as he swiftly shifts the suitcases away from the door and further into the apartment.

 _Oh_ , thinks Yuuri, as he toes off his own shoes. Victor’s shoes, now scattered on the floor, make him smile. _That’s why Victor never forgot to remove his shoes in Hasetsu - I guess it’s something Russians do at home, too._

“ _Spasibo bol’shoye , Pavel_!” It’s practically a song coming from Victor, who bounds across the apartment toward the door as Pavel slips his shoes back on his feet. “ _Ya napishu tebe zavtra, kogda nas zabrat’_.” 

“ _Da, da. Dobro pozhalovat' domoy, Victor_.”

 _Oh, I know that one,_ thinks Yuuri, perking up just as Pavel turns to him and gives him a sharp nod. “ _I vam tozhe_ , Katsuki Yuuri.” 

“ _Spasibo_ ,” said Yuuri as Pavel leaves the apartment.

“Oh, good, you took off your shoes,” says Victor cheerfully as he begins throwing the locks on the door. Makkachin is still racing from one end of the apartment to the other, letting out a cheerful bark every minute or two as she skids on the pergo floor.

“Of course I did,” says Yuuri.

Victor might not have even heard him. “You can wear my slippers tonight, we’ll get you a pair later. Pavel will put Makkachin’s crate in the storeroom downstairs, but we’ll need to move the suitcases ourselves. So.” Victor turned from the door and shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking up on his toes. “What do you think?”

“I think,” says Yuuri slowly. He turns to look at Victor, who smiles hopefully back at him. “I… have no idea where I’m standing or what time it is or if I should sleep or eat or run around in circles.”

Victor grins. “I feel exactly the same.”

Makkachin lets out a _woof_.  She noses at Yuuri’s hand, looking for scratches. Yuuri smiles as she trots off to the other side of the room again. “I think Makkachin wants me to explore.”

“That’s a good idea. It won’t take you very long. Hang up your coat, I’ll see what Marina left for us to eat.”

There’s a series of hooks on the wall by the door; Victor’s coat already hangs from one end. Yuuri tugs his coat off and hangs it next to Victor’s. It’s as he puts their outside shoes on the rack underneath that he sees the two pairs of slippers - one clearly well-worn and well-loved, dark brown leather lined with grey fur on the inside. The second pair is just a bit smaller and brand-new, blue leather with cream-colored fur.

“Oh,” says Yuuri. “Vitya - there’s two pairs of slippers here?”

“Really?” Victor sticks his head out of the kitchen and bursts into a grin. “Wow! Marina must have bought them for you. Do they fit?”

Yuuri slips them on; they’re a little big, but comfortable and almost warmer than his outside shoes. “I think so.”

“Good!” Victor disappears back in the kitchen, where it sounds as if he’s opening and closing nearly every cabinet and drawer, as if he’s in search of reassurance that he’s home with everything just as he left it.

Yuuri lines his shoes up under his coat and sets Victor’s next to them. It’s reassuring to see them there, neatly lined up. A bit like they’re back in Hasetsu, except it’s a genkan just for the two of them; it gives Yuuri a warm feeling in his chest.

The feeling lasts only as long as it takes for a crash from the kitchen, the sound of an entire cabinet of pots and pans clattering to the floor.

“I’m all right!” shouts Victor. Yuuri chuckles and goes to join Makkachin at the large picture window overlooking the city instead.

It’s too dark outside to see much beyond bright lights and the multitude of cars on the road. There’s dark patches that could be parks or unlit buildings; directly across the river is another cathedral, much more European in style with a golden dome. If Yuuri turns his head, he can see the spilled-blood cathedral brightly lit on the other side of the dark snake of river, a pretty little Russian candy amidst a sea of modern European influence.

“So this is home, huh, Makkachin?” Yuuri asks softly. Makkachin wags her tail. “Okay. Show me around.”

The living room is simple. There’s a couple of couches pushed up against the wall, one which appears much more comfortable and well-used than the other, with bookshelves on the wall opposite them. In between is a large table with a few scattered chairs; it’s low enough that the couches clearly double as seating. There’s a lot of blank spaces on the walls and a fair share of empty shelves on the bookshelves, perhaps for things that Victor took with him to Hasetsu. Yuuri doesn’t remember Victor having so many knick-knacks in Hasetsu that he’d need as many shelves as he has open. It’s more likely that Victor never got around to filling them in the first place.

He spies the medals almost immediately, arranged neatly on one of the shelves. The medals are set in picture-boxes with accompanying photos of Victor wearing the costumes from the programs that earned them. They’re so expertly done that Yuuri knows immediately it couldn’t have been Victor who arranged them.

It’s a nice room, and it reminds Yuuri of Victor’s room back in Hasetsu. Simple, comfortable, friendly. Yuuri thinks he sees a good place for the shrine opposite the shelves, but he wants to see the rest of the apartment before he decides for sure.

The kitchen is more of an offshoot of the living room, instead of a separate space. The appliances are all stainless steel and appear to be only a few years old. There’s a central island with pots and pans hanging overhead from hooks, all looking new and shiny and barely used, except for one or two that look as if they’ve been around for centuries. Victor clatters around, talking to himself, mostly cries of delight as he finds things he’s forgotten, or grumbles as he looks for things he can’t find.

“I think something light, and then sleep?” Victor asks Yuuri. “Marina left chicken and plov. It’s not katsudon, but she’s a very good cook, so it’ll be good. Unless you’re very hungry?”

“I probably won’t know until I get started,” admits Yuuri.

“Hmm,” says Victor in agreement, and ducks under a cabinet. “Oh, _that’s_ where Marina put the good dishes!”

Yuuri laughs. “Can I look at the rest of the apartment?”

Victor’s voice echoes in the cabinet. “ _Idi, idi_!” 

There’s a single hallway leading off the living room. The first door is a bathroom, much larger than it has any right to be and so oddly shaped that closing the door is almost impossible without accidentally stepping into the toilet. Yuuri grins when he sees what hangs on a hook next to the oversized sink.

“Victor! Why is your Olympic gold medal in the bathroom?”

Victor’s voice gets louder as he gets closer. “So that guests can try it on without having to ask, of course. They always take a very long time in here. I thought about adding a stereo system, so they could listen to their national anthem, but I think that’s too much, don’t you?”

Victor grins at him from the doorway; Yuuri shakes his head and ducks past Victor to continue his exploration.

“Linen closet to your left, the lounge is on the right, the bedroom’s in the back. You’re not allowed to judge me for the couch.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, and he opens the door on the right.

Yuuri immediately regrets agreeing to make the couch off-limits.

The couch is the most horribly patterned monstrosity that Yuuri has ever seen in his life. It’s brown and pink and orange, and Yuuri can’t tell if it’s meant to be a floral or jungle pattern. It’s also fuzzy, which doesn’t help. The throw neatly folded on the back is at least a reasonable shade of brown, but is so clearly made of some blend that cannot possibly be found in nature that it doesn’t help temper the awfulness of the couch. The only positive thing that Yuuri can see are two bright magenta pillows which look vaguely comfortable.

He decides any decisions made before he laid eyes on the couch can be considered null and void.

It’s of small comfort – and infinite confusion – that the rest of the room looks much like the rest of the apartment. The wallpaper is cream-colored with a paisley pattern that’s so faint it might as well be non-existent. There’s a low dresser under the window covered in framed photographs of people Yuuri doesn’t recognize, and a few random knick-knacks that look like souvenirs from various places where Victor’s competed.

Opposite the couch, the wall is all bookshelves, with a cutout in the center for a wall-mounted television so big, it’s slightly curved. It’s easily the most expensive thing in the entire room. A DVD player and VHS machine sit on a shelf underneath, remote controls precisely placed. The shelves are teeming with books, most of which look as though they’ve been read a thousand times, if the broken spines are a clue. Russian - French - English - and to Yuuri’s surprise, a few that look suspiciously like beginner’s Japanese tutorials. There’s movies, too, but most have the shiny gleam of plastic wrap, as if Victor couldn’t be bothered to watch them. Tucked into the bookshelves are stuffed plushies - no doubt acquired at various competitions, though Yuuri recognizes several versions of the strange monkey-slash-bear with overly large ears that served as the Russian team mascot for a few Olympics.

What strikes Yuuri the most – well, apart from the couch; the couch can’t be ignored for anything – are his suitcases, sitting in the middle of the floor. Yuuri’s stomach does a lurch.

_Okay, that’s kind of unexpected. We shared a room in Hasetsu more often than not, I sort of thought we’d… maybe I was wrong? Or maybe he doesn’t sleep with people while he’s training._

_I really don’t want to sleep on that couch. I think it might give me nightmares._

Yuuri becomes aware of Victor watching him, his mouth a thin, waiting line.

“The TV’s nice,” offers Yuuri weakly.

Victor breaks into a smile.

“My twenty-fifth birthday present to myself,” he says. “It’s very useful when watching practice tapes.”

Yuuri almost blanches when he thinks about watching himself on such a large screen. “Oh. Great.”

“You catch a lot more on a larger screen than a smaller one,” Victor reassures him, as if _that_ is what worries Yuuri. “Why are your bags in here, Yuuri?”

“This is where I found them?”

Victor shakes his head, chuckling. “Well, you’re not sleeping in here! The couch folds out, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Victor picks up one of the bags and carries it out. It’s ridiculous to feel relieved that his fiancé still wants to sleep with him - but Yuuri can’t help it. Or maybe the relief is because Victor indicated that he knew how awful the couch was.

_Face it, Yuuri. You’re in love with someone who owns that couch._

He’s much too jet-lagged to come to terms with that realization, so Yuuri takes the second bag and follows Victor out of the room.

Victor’s room is much larger than the lounge – and thankfully, is couch-less. The walls are also wallpapered, but in a soft grey that looks like someone tried stenciling a pattern over and gave up halfway through. There are windows on two walls, both with curtains drawn. A walk-in closet to the side, and next to it, what looks like an en suite bathroom. There’s a standing wardrobe, a chest of drawers - and the bed, about the same size as the one in Victor’s room in Hasetsu. It’s piled high with blankets, the top-most one crocheted in loud, obnoxious colors that reminds Yuuri so much of the couch that he decides on the spot to pretend it isn’t there. The pillows are propped up invitingly at the head.

What reassures Yuuri the most are the small signs of life. A book on the table next to the bed, with a bookmark halfway through. Two glasses with bottles of water on either side table, placed within easy reach. A dog bed in the corner of the room that’s so covered in dog hair it’s impossible to tell its original color, and a small basket full of dog toys, some of which are already strewn across the carpet.

Photographs on the dresser: Victor at various ages, with people Yuuri doesn’t recognize, and some in skating costumes he’s never seen. A small lacquered box with a detailed winter scene, and behind it, several cardboard boxes neatly stacked, the kind that are meant to hold jewelry or cufflinks or something expensive and fancy. There’s an envelope propped up against the mirror, with Victor’s name written in Cyrillic on it.

Evidence of the life Victor lived, before he upended everything and came to Hasetsu. Apart from the neatly-made bed, it looks as if Victor had only left the room that morning.

 _Victor lives in this room. The rest of it – he just spends time there_.

Victor is rocking back on his heels, watching Yuuri expectantly. There’s an open, hopeful smile on his face.

Yuuri looks around the room again and sets down his bag with a determined _thump_. “I like it.”

Victor breaks into a grin. “Good. I think—”

The knock on the front door makes Yuuri jump a little.

“Oh, that’s Irina!” exclaims Victor, and goes to answer it. “Irochka! _Ty vyrosla_!” 

Makkachin lets out a joyful bark as she scurries down the hall, and Irina – whoever she is – talks back to him. She sounds young, and Yuuri knows he should be polite and go to meet her, but… this is the first moment in over twenty-four hours that he’s had entirely to himself, without a single thing that needed to be accomplished or experienced. He doesn’t want to give it up just yet.

Yuuri closes his eyes as his shoulders slump forward. Exhaustion is beginning to catch up with him now that the adrenaline of having arrived is wearing off. He can feel the ache in his bones from sitting in the plane too long. The memory of the dull roar of the flight is still fresh; if he stops paying attention to the conversation in the other room, which is easy since he doesn’t understand a word of it, he might think he’s still on the plane, overhearing other passengers as they talk.

Yuuri looks at the bed. It would be so easy to lie down, and just… _sleep_.

The front door closes, and Yuuri hears Victor coming back down the hall. “Irochka took Makkachin for a walk. Do you want to eat?”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, looking at the bed longingly.

“Oh – you could sleep, it’s all right,” says Victor, uncertainly. Yuuri shakes his head.

“Too early. Maybe in another hour.”

“Okay,” says Victor. He hesitates for a moment before stepping up to Yuuri to take his hands in his. The grin is still on his face. He looks tired too, but so, so happy. “You’re here. You’re actually _here_.”

“ _Hai_ ,” agrees Yuuri, too worn out for English. Victor laughs and kisses him lightly on the lips.

“Come on, before the food gets cold.”

There’s a small table in the kitchen, pushed up against the windows that overlook the city. Yuuri can’t see the cathedral from this angle, but it’s still a pretty, twinkly view that reminds him of every other generic nighttime view from a high vantage point. The only downside is that it’s so cold next to the window that Yuuri finds himself shivering – and he’s so tired that it’s not even proper shivering, just entire minutes where he’s fine interspersed with fragmentary moments where he has a single, violent shake.

He stares at the fork and knife that Victor’s put on the table like they might send sparks up his arm.

“Oh, right,” he says, in wonder. “For some reason I expected chopsticks. I must really be tired.”

Victor hesitates before setting down the plate of food in front of Yuuri. “Oh,” he says, awkwardly holding the plate. “I didn’t… we can find you some. I think there’s a store nearby? I’d have to look it up, but--”

Victor looks so lost that Yuuri instantly feels terrible. “It’s fine. I do know how to use a fork, you know.”

“I know,” admits Victor. He sets the plate down gently. “I should have thought.”

“You’ve thought enough already.” It’s not very well said - but Yuuri’s too tired to think of a more elegant way of phrasing it. Anyway, Victor’s smile indicates that he doesn’t seem to mind. Yuuri picks up the fork and digs into the plov while Victor fetches his own plate.

“I don’t even get to see you fumble with them,” he complains while Yuuri eats. “It’s really very unfair.”

“You never fumbled with chopsticks.”

“You never saw me try to eat ramen after six glasses of sake.”

The plov is good – sweet and flavorful with carrots and raisins. The chicken is so tender that it’s falling off the bone. Just as he expected, the moment Yuuri starts to eat, he’s hungry – not ravenous, but he almost cleans his plate before he notices Victor eating just as happily.

The front door opens and Makkachin comes racing in, skidding to a stop near the table. Her fur is cold from being outside, and slightly damp, too.

“Must be raining,” says Victor. He leaves his plate to clean off Makkachin’s feet again, switching to Russian as he talks to the young girl who’s followed Makkachin in. She glances shyly at Yuuri while she climbs up on one of the stools at the kitchen island, chattering away with Victor. As soon as Makkachin’s feet are clean, Victor hands her a plate of plov and chicken as if feeding children who take Makkachin on walks is an expected thing to do.

Then again, Hiroko makes a habit of feeding anyone who walks into the inn, guest or not. The reason there are three stools in the kitchen instead of the two that were there when Yuuri was growing up is because Yuuko has triplets.

Yuuri’s plate is empty before he realizes it. He considers a second serving, but decides one is plenty, particularly given what he mindlessly ate on the plane.

The girl says something that sounds particularly pointed. Victor reels. “Ach, I forgot. Yuuri, this is Irochka. She lives two floors up and walks Makkachin for me when I’m at the rink. Irina, this is Yuuri Katsuki.”

“ _Ochen’ priyatno_ ,” says Yuuri. The more he says it, the more the words roll off his tongue with ease.

Irina giggles. “ _Ochen’ priyatno_. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri. “I didn’t realize you spoke English.”

“My fault!” says Victor. “Irochka, you want to use Yuuri for practice, his English is better than mine.”

“Oh, I’m not that good,” says Yuuri quickly.

“You lived in America for five years, I learned most of mine from television.”

“No, you didn’t,” says Irina pertly.

“I do a very good impression of Bruce Willis,” Victor insists, but Irina rolls her eyes.

“No, he doesn’t,” says Irina to Yuuri, who laughs. “I thought you were taller.”

“It’s the skates,” says Yuuri.

“I watched you on TV. Do you think you will beat Victor at Worlds?”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, eyes going wide. He glances over at Victor, who looks equally interested in the answer, and is of no help whatsoever. “I… no. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know! That’s a long way from now.”

“I hope you do,” says Irina. “He is nice man, but his head.” She puts her hands on the side of her head and extends them out, as if to say that Victor’s head is forever expanding. “You should pop it, like a balloon. _Pop!_ ” She makes a jabby motion with her hand and then grins at Victor, swinging her legs with undeniable glee.

Victor shakes his head. “I came home for this.”

“You did,” says Irina as she hops off the stool. “Thank you for the plov and chicken. Mama made _herring_ tonight.” Irina shudders. “ _Do svidaniya_ , Yuuri Katsuki. Welcome to Russia.” 

“Thank you,” says Yuuri, deciding that he likes Irina already. She gives Makkachin’s soft head a pat and leaves, shutting the door solidly behind her. Victor throws the locks and rejoins Yuuri in the kitchen.

“She was such a sweet girl when she was eight and in pigtails,” he says mournfully. “And now she’s a teenager. Such a tragedy.”

Yuuri smiles; Victor’s accent sounds much thicker. He’s not sure if it’s being back in Russia or just general exhaustion, but he likes it. “I like her.”

“She likes you too. She says she’s been watching you skate. Do you want anything else to eat?”

“No – I can help you clean—” The words are lost as Yuuri nearly unhinges his jaw as he yawns.

Victor smiles and shakes his head. “I’ll do it. It’s not much. You should go to bed.”

“Right,” says Yuuri, feeling another yawn coming on, but this time, he’s able to control it so it doesn’t get out of hand. “Oh, wait. I need to send my parents a note, let them know we’ve arrived.”

“Of course. The wifi password is in the side table drawer, by the window.”

By the time Yuuri’s found his phone tucked in a pocket of his backpack, turned it on, and entered the password, he’s barely able to keep his eyes open. The couch is just as comfortable as it looks, and Makkachin instantly hops up and snuggles next to Yuuri, settling her head on his lap.

_Hi, Mom and Dad and Mari. Victor and I are here. Saint Petersburg is beautiful by night and we can see a cathedral from the living room. It’s really cold! The flight was fine but I’m exhausted. I’ll try to write more later._

He sends the email, copying Minako and Phichit and Yuuko. There’s a dozen new emails that he really should read, but the thought of staying awake for one more moment is more than he can bear. He exits out of his email just as Victor flops on the sofa on his other side and wraps his arms around Yuuri’s chest.

“Come to bed, _solnyshko_ ,” Victor murmurs into Yuuri’s ear before nuzzling into Yuuri’s neck. Yuuri rests his hands on Victor’s forearms, lets his head hang to the side for a moment to give Victor better access. Yuuri sways with exhaustion and the added weight of Victor. If he’s not careful, he’ll fall asleep right there.

He’s still not sure how he manages to stand up, but he does. It’s only when Victor leans against him as they walk back to the bedroom that he realizes Victor is probably just as tired as he is, now that the initial elation of being home is slowly wearing off.

Victor’s bed is just as comfortable and soft and _warm_ as Yuuri thought it would be. The brand-new sheets are ridiculously smooth and soft. The mattress dips as Makkachin clambers up, too, huffing and snorting as she digs under the covers at Yuuri’s back.

Victor kisses Yuuri’s cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his eyes.

“Vitya,” protests Yuuri. He really can’t keep his eyes open.

“I know,” says Victor happily as he hugs him tight. “You’re _here_.”

“ _Da_ ,” says Yuuri, and they fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are no direct flights from Tokyo to Saint Petersburg – Yuuri and Victor (and Makkachin) would have had to transfer at least one more time in Moscow. But because that’s a pain in the neck, I’m inventing a flight for them. I’m also taking a few liberties with the layout of Saint Petersburg.
> 
> [There are hanzi characters in Pulkovo Airport](http://www.pulkovoairport.ru/en/about/news/2016/2664/), though. (Hanzi being the Chinese name for kanji, which are used in both Chinese and Japanese writing). A quick check in Google translate indicates that Yuuri would probably be able to read them, though I’m not sure how much he’d understand. If someone who understands both would like to correct me on that assumption, I’m all ears! 
> 
> Other notes:  
> [Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Church_of_the_Savior_on_Blood) \- Classic Russian onion-dome cathedral. The reason it’s on spilled blood is because it was built on the location where Alexander II was fatally wounded. (Hence, _on_ spilled blood.) 
> 
> [Vaslievsky Island](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vasilyevsky_Island#/media/File:VasilievskyIsland.png) \- where Victor’s apartment is located, on the eastern side near where it gets all pointy. The sports complex is just across the river to the north. My Russian beta, rogovich, found [this gorgeous photo](http://www.crimeaagency.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/103052256_Vid_na_Isaakievskiy_sobor_SanktPeterburg_Rossiya.jpg) that I’m totally claiming as the view from Victor’s living room. 
> 
> [Isaakievskiy Cathedral](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Isaac%27s_Cathedral) – the “golden dome” church that Yuuri sees from Victor’s apartment.
> 
> The monkey-bear on Victor’s shelves is [Cheburashka](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cheburashka), a character from Soviet children’s literature in the 1960s. Yuuri would probably even be familiar with him, because cartoons with this character were shown in Japanese cinemas starting in 2001.
> 
> Translations:  
> moy miliy (Russian) – my darling  
> Dobroe utro, Yuuri. Kak dela? (Russian) – Good morning, Yuuri. How are you?  
> Khorosho. Menya zovut Victor Andreyevich Nikiforov. (Russian) – I’m well. My name is Victor Andreyevich Nikiforov.  
> Pozhaluysta (Russian) – You’re welcome. (It’s also please!)  
> Dobro pozhalovat' v Sankt-Petersburg. (Russian) – Welcome to Saint Petersburg.  
> Vy doma! Eto zamechatel'no! Davaite prazdnovat’! U menya gde-to est’ butylka vodki! (Russian) – You are home! This is wonderful! We should celebrate! I have a bottle of vodka around here somewhere!  
> Spasibo bol’shoye (Russian) – Thank you so much  
> Ya napishu tebe zavtra, kogda nas zabrat’. (Russian) – I’ll text you tomorrow when to pick us up.  
> Dobro pozhalovat' domoy (Russian) – Welcome home.  
> I vam tozhe – And also you.  
> Idi, idi! (Russian) – Go, go!  
> Ty vyrosla! (Russian) – You’ve grown!  
> Do svidaniya (Russian) – Goodbye


	8. Ochen' priyatno!

Victor wakes without opening his eyes. At first, he thinks he’s still in Hasetsu, with Yuuri snoring softly next to him and Makkachin just beginning to become restless near their feet.

Then he smells the forgotten, familiar scent of the lavender laundry soap Marina uses, the low click of the radiators _tick-tick-ticking_ by the windows. His eyes spring open.

 _Home_.

Victor turns to his back, smiling as he looks up at the familiar ceiling, comfortable in his familiar bed. He relishes in the familiar noises of the residents of the apartment above as they move across the floor ( _tick tick thonk thonk tick creek tick_ ). The far-off groan of the elevator slowly moving from floor to floor, and the even farther sound of the traffic from the streets below, muted by the heavy curtains covering the windows. The satisfying feel of sticking his fingers through the gaping holes of the crocheted blanket, same as he did when he was twenty and fifteen and ten and five.

Hasetsu isn’t a dream – if he closes his eyes, he smells the sulfur from the onsen, hears the soft sounds of doors sliding open and closed. Hiroko smiles and crinkles her nose, Toshiya laughs loud and long, and the smoke from Mari’s cigarette curls around her head as she pauses for a moment outside.

Victor knows their lives continue without Yuuri or Victor present. He can picture their day as easily as he slides his fingers one by one through the holes in his crocheted blanket. If Victor could fold the world, he could step into Hasetsu from Saint Petersburg and find them exactly as he imagines them, and relive every treasured moment.

Makkachin crawls over Yuuri to lick Victor’s face. She huffs and whines and moves from foot to foot in an elaborate, excitable dance. Victor chuckles and grabs her gently by the scruff of her neck.

“Okay, okay, don’t wake him. We’ll go.” He speaks in Russian without even thinking; in Hasetsu, he’d always felt a bit uncomfortable speaking to Makkachin in Russian. Now it’s just another sign of his world slotting back into place.

Victor slips out of the bed. It's wretchedly warm in the bedroom, much more than he normally likes, and Victor shakes his head, belatedly remembering that he'd usually crack open a window to counter the overactive heaters. Makkachin is already pawing at the front door, ready to go, but Victor watches as Yuuri rolls into the warmth he’s left behind. Yuuri might have been the first to wake in Hasetsu, but Victor knows he’d sleep for ten hours a day if he could. When he’s training, Victor is fine on just seven or eight – and already Victor feels more awake with less sleep than he has in a very long while. Better to let Yuuri get as much as he can now, because Victor is sure he won’t have this much time to rest once they begin training again in earnest.

It’s just after six in the morning. Any other day, they’d be halfway through their morning routines, preparing to leave for the rink. Today, they can take their time. It isn’t as if Yakov doesn’t know they flew in the night before. He’ll understand, even if he’ll be annoyed about their tardiness.

Dimitri the doorman has gone home. Victor doesn’t recognize the new man, though it’s clear the new doorman recognizes him by the respectful nod of his head as he lets them both out. Victor wonders why the man keeps staring at his head – his hair’s not so thin that people _notice_ now, is it? Or maybe he’s just unnerved by the color?

It’s bitterly cold outside and still pitch-black dark. Makkachin keeps her nose to the ground, tail wagging. Victor holds the lead tightly, willing to let her set the pace and destination as long as he can stay close. Makkachin has plenty to do on this walk. She sprinkles messages every few steps, and her nose is working so hard, Victor wonders if she’ll end up with a cold.

It wouldn’t surprise him. He’s _freezing_.

_Did my blood really thin that much, with barely a year away? Not fair. I hope Yuuri’s coat will be warm enough. Maybe he’ll fit into one of mine, I should have extras. They’ll be big on him._

The image makes him smile.

Makkachin keeps walking. Victor grins when he realizes that she’s following their old path down to one of the main streets, where there are shops and restaurants. Victor’s heart swells when he recognizes his favorite coffee shop – not a Starbucks yet, thank God – and just down the street, his favorite restaurant. There’s outside seating under oversized umbrellas on sunlit summer nights, and the wait staff routinely bring Makkachin a bowl of water and bone to chew.

 _I’ll take Yuuri there tonight,_ he thinks. _We’ll be too tired to cook, and I should show him my city._

Most of the street is the same: the convenience store where he buys the groceries he forgets to tell Marina to purchase, the bank, the pharmacy, the stationary. The internet café’s lights are on, and there’s even a few people inside, hunched over computers. The travel agent appears to have moved somewhere else, but the stand selling newspapers and candies and cigarettes is still there. It’s not open, but the prospect of being able to just sit and read a newspaper in Cyrillic is so intoxicating that Victor finds himself digging in his coat pockets for forgotten rubles anyway.

There’s a brand-new McDonald’s at the end of the street. Victor sighs and keeps moving.

He can’t feel his nose or his ears by the time they make their way back to the apartment building, and Victor has long since cursed himself for forgetting a hat. He’s tempted to put the newly-purchased newspaper on his head for extra warmth, but he’s too sober to look so ridiculous.

_That was why the doorman kept looking at me; he probably thought I was crazy for forgetting it._

Given the way the doorman’s eyebrows rise when Victor and Makkachin return, Victor thinks he’s right.

Back in the apartment, Victor unhooks Makkachin’s lead, sheds his coat and scarf, switches his shoes for his slippers, and drops the newspaper on the table. Compared to outside, the main rooms are blissfully hot, and Victor goes to warm his fingers against the radiator in the kitchen. 

 _Just as well I forgot to crack the windows last night_ , thinks Victor ruefully.  _I don’t remember it being that cold outside, though. Maybe it’s just colder this year?_

Hands warm and stomach growling, Victor stands and goes to see about making some tea.

It’s after seven when he finds the electric kettle that’s been sitting on the counter, inexplicably hidden behind the cutting boards.

It’s nearing 7:30 when he realizes that the electric kettle probably needs water in it, because it’s making a truly terrible smell.

Yuuri’s still asleep.

“Makkachin,” whispers Victor. “Want another walk?”

He bags up the electric kettle and throws it down the trash chute on their way out to the coffee shop. Given the way the inside looks, it’s probably best not to try using it again. He can always buy another.

Besides… the coffee shop has _syrniki_. And what Yakov doesn’t know won’t kill him.

*

Trying to simultaneously balance a breakfast tray, open the bedroom door, _and_ keep Makkachin from rushing into the room while also managing to stay on his feet is much more difficult that landing a quad flip - or so Victor tells himself when Makkachin nearly knocks him over in an effort to wake up Yuuri while Victor tries to keep his balance. Keeping the tray aloft is a close thing, but Victor manages to keep from dropping it, even if everything on it makes a terrible racket.

“Makkachin?” Yuuri’s sleep-laden voice is muffled and heavy with his accent as he shifts on the bed.

“Makkachin!” scolds Victor gently, but Makkachin just wags her tail at him and sits next to Yuuri, clearly pleased with her role as alarm clock. “I’m sorry, Yuuri, I didn’t mean for her to wake you. That was _my_ job.”

There’s a huff from the bed as Yuuri turns onto his back. Victor sets the tray down on Yuuri’s side table and switches on the lamp. Yuuri, just woken, is adorable: rumpled and blinking, his hair in a thousand directions. Without his glasses, he looks like a well-bedded but confused version of his Eros persona. He reaches automatically for his glasses, which Makkachin had knocked to the floor in her excitement. Victor hands them to Yuuri, sorry to see the sexy, sleepy fiance disappear, even if the sweetly innocent man who takes his place is just as endearing.

Yuuri rubs his eyes and takes the mug that Victor offers him. “I really wanted to sleep until morning,” he grumbles.

“It _is_ morning, _solnyshko_ ,” says Victor, settling on the bed next to him. “It’s already past eight.”

Yuuri’s mouth drops open. “ _Eight_. What time are we supposed to go to the rink?”

“We’d be there by now usually, of course, but no one will expect us this early today. As long as we’re there by noon, we’re fine.”

Yuuri glances at the window, clearly unsettled, but Victor can already tell he’s preparing to power through. “Okay. Thank you for the tea.”

“There’s a very good coffee shop that does excellent tea. I don’t usually buy, but the electric kettle seems to have died since I left, so. And they have the best _syrniki_.” Victor takes a sip of his own black tea - bitter and acidic with lemon, a world away from Hiroko’s creamy matcha blend, and just as delicious in an entirely different way. “I considered waking you up with sex, but I thought you might like this better.”

Yuuri chuckles. “I’m not going to answer that.”

“Oh? Then you _would_ have liked sex?”

Yuuri drinks his tea.

“ _Yuuu-ri_.”

Yuuri doesn’t answer, but Victor can see his ears blushing anyway.

“It’s really unfair, I made love to you in your bed in Hasetsu, the least you could do is make love to me here.”

Victor’s not sure if the flush that appears suddenly on Yuuri’s cheeks is from embarrassment, memory, or just the heat from his tea. The way his adam’s apple bobs up and down makes Victor’s mouth water. “We didn’t make love _the first night_.”

“No, you were a cruel man and made me _wait_.”

“Hmm.” Yuuri takes Victor’s mug of tea; he turns and puts both it and his own on the side table.

“You also made me think you were only sexually motivated by katsudon, but—”

Yuuri tackles Victor down to the mattress and kisses him, hands on his upper arms.

“Okay, this is good,” says Victor.

“Shut up,” says Yuuri, breathing hard. He tries to sit up, but given his position half-lying on Victor, it’s too much of an angle. He falls over as he struggles to take off his shirt and ends up getting it stuck over his head. “ _Chikushō_!”

Victor snickers and sits up. “I don’t understand how someone so clumsy on land can be so graceful on the ice.”

Yuuri says something else in Japanese, but it’s muffled by his shirt – and anyway, Victor’s pulling off his shirt, too. He slides off the bed and drops his jeans and underwear in one go.

“ _Vitya_ ,” groans Yuuri.

“Yuuri, tell the truth. When we make love, are you thinking about pork cutlet bowls?”

“Which answer will get you to help me take my shirt off?” Yuuri sounds small and sad. Victor wants to take pity on him, but he’s having way too much fun. He opens the bedside table drawer and frowns.

_I thought I left… hmph. Maybe in the luggage._

“The fact that you have to think about the answer makes me question my abilities as a lover, Yuuri. Perhaps I am not satisfying you?”

“Mostly, you’re fine. At the moment, you leave a lot to be desired.”

Victor pauses as he unzips a suitcase to put a hand over his heart. “Ach! You wound me.”

“You’re being dramatic. I can’t even _see_ you, and you’re being dramatic.”

“Oh! You _do_ know me.”

_Aha! Found them._

“I know what I’m not going to do to you once you help me with this shirt.”

“Mmm,” says Victor. He settles himself back down on the bed. Yuuri’s nipples are already tight buds; he still rests the tip of a single finger next to one, just to see Yuuri shudder. “In that case, perhaps I’ll leave it on?”

“Vitya.” Such a quiet, _strained_ whisper.

Victor leans over him, dropping his voice. “Yuuri. Until last night, I never invited anyone into this bed.”

Yuuri sucks in a breath; Victor watches his stomach muscles flex under his skin. He can’t help run the tips of his fingers lightly down Yuuri’s skin, as if dancing them down to the waistband of Yuuri’s sleep pants. Yuuri’s breath becomes increasingly strained.

“It’s true! And I was very much hoping that you would make love to me in it.”

Maybe it’s the sound of Victor’s voice, maybe it’s the suggestion of being the _first_. Yuuri says something else in Japanese and starts rocking back and forth in renewed effort to get his shirt off.

“I’ll help,” says Victor cheerfully. He pulls Yuuri’s pants down, freeing a very heavy morning wood just as Yuuri throws his shirt off the bed and twists so that he’s once again tackled Victor to the bed.

Except this time, they’re _naked_.

Well, mostly naked. Yuuri’s legs are now tangled in his pants, but he doesn’t much seem to care from the way he’s kissing Victor. Victor uses his feet to push the pants down to Yuuri’s ankles, and he’s able to kick them off the rest of the way from there.

“Please tell me,” says Yuuri in between kisses, “that we’re only doing light skating today.”

“We might not even be on the ice until this afternoon.”

“Good,” says Yuuri. “I’ve got stuff in my bag.”

“Found it.”

Yuuri shifts so that he’s about to straddle Victor – but Victor’s quicker, and puts his hand on Yuuri’s hip, stopping him. Yuuri pushes himself up, confusion on his face.

“I told you,” whispers Victor. “My bed. You’re making love _to me_.”

Yuuri’s eyes dilate just a little, and it gives Victor a thrill like electrical current. Yuuri is _gorgeous_ like this: hair mussed from sleep, faint impression lines from his pillow, skin warm and flushed. He smells delicious, too, all warm tea and the lavender soap Marina uses for laundry. When Victor buries his nose in Yuuri’s neck, he swears he can smell the onsen and the sea. It’s such delightful, delicious scent – and so familiar – that Victor opens his mouth and suckles on Yuuri’s skin, his chest bursting with happiness.

Yuuri shifts again as Victor spreads his legs so that Yuuri can settle between them, and then settles back down on Victor’s chest. His kiss is gentler now, his hands moving up to cradle Victor’s head.

It’s been less than two months since they became lovers, and Yuuri is still hesitant to push when he takes the lead. Victor doesn’t mind; every movement Yuuri makes is delicate, considered and careful. Yuuri is as graceful in bed as he is on the ice. When it’s just the two of them together like this – he’s so focused that it’s as though he’s forgotten how to be shy.

Yuuri doesn’t just make love to Victor. He _cherishes_ him, body and soul and spirit. Victor’s not surprised that this is how Yuuri makes love.

Victor is surprised because he never thought he’d love the feeling of being _cherished_ as much as he does, when it’s Yuuri doing the cherishing.

Maybe it’s backwards – it’s Victor’s apartment, isn’t he the one who’s supposed to be marking his territory? – but somehow, it seems fitting to let Yuuri claim him on their first morning in Saint Petersburg together. It was Victor’s bed, Victor’s apartment, Victor’s city… he wants it to be Yuuri’s, too.

They break their kisses only to roll on the condom, to slather fingers with lube. If Yuuri is shy at any point in the process, this is usually the place. Victor would be happy enough to let the condoms go – he and Yuuri are committed and clean, and it’s not like pregnancy is an issue – but Yuuri clings to the condoms like a security blanket. Victor’s not entirely sure why, but if Yuuri needs the safety of a condom, Victor will wear them until told otherwise.

Victor’s thoughts skitter as soon as Yuuri’s mouth kisses Victor’s inner thigh. His fingers are light and cool on the skin around his cock and his balls, just above his hole, stroking so lightly it’s more sensation than actual touch. It’s not until Yuuri’s fingers press lightly on the thin ring around his hole that Victor cries out, a soft groan of pleasure as the sensation of Yuuri’s fingers pressing _into_ him overwhelms him, cool and slick and _lovely_.

 _God_ , he loves this.

Yuuri’s fingers move slowly, creeping so that by the time they find his prostate, Victor’s on edge. The moment they do touch, Victor’s hands fly to his pillow. His fingers dig into the feathers as he stretches his back and arches.

“ _Ennngh_ ,” he groans. Eight months of living with paper walls have turned keeping his groans quiet into a habit, and he has to bite down on his lips to relieve the strain.

“Vitya,” says Yuuri, breath on skin. “Please. I want to hear you.”

 _There’s no one here but us_ , realizes Victor; the strain dissipates into relief, compounded by Yuuri’s fingers still gently stroking. It’s enough to push past any remaining hesitation. Victor _groans_ , lets the sound pour out of his mouth, and is rewarded by Yuuri’s mouth on the base of his cock, teeth just lightly touching.

 _Ah, fuck_.

“Yuuri!”

Yuuri doesn’t break his stride; he licks wetly at Victor’s cock, fingers dancing on and inside his skin. Victor’s eyes fly open; the room is in shadow, but he knows every shadow intimately. He’s lost focus in the darkness of his room before, with only his hand for stimulation, only the imagined touch of a lover caressing and caring for him.

It’s true - he’s never invited anyone into this bedroom. Their apartments, or foreign hotel rooms. The dormitories at the skating complex when he was younger. He’d even had lovers over for dinner or drinks - but the bedroom was always his alone.

Yuuri closes his mouth over the tip of Victor’s cock; his tongue presses gently against the slit as he lets out a soft, satisfied moan. Victor must be leaking precome - and the thought that Yuuri groans because he likes the flavor sends Victor’s desire through the room.

“Yuuri,” he gasps, bucking behind him.

“Okay,” says Yuuri, breathless. The fingers slip out of him, replaced with Yuuri’s body over his. Yuuri’s mouth tastes like green tea and his own skin, the slight salt flavor of his cock. Victor kisses him hungrily, unable to keep any part of his body still as he wriggles and bucks. Yuuri laughs as he holds him down gently, gives in to Victor anxious kisses and nips.

“Hey there,” says Yuuri, eyes sparkling.

“Need you,” gasps Victor. “ _Mne nuzhno..._ ”

“I know, I’ve--” Yuuri’s breaths are coming faster now; he props himself up on one elbow while his other hand lines his cock up. Everything is still slick and slippy; Victor wants to laugh - or he does, until he can feel the soft pressure of Yuuri’s cock in the exact right place, slowly beginning to open him up.

Yuuri presses in, slowly, so slicked up and wet that it’s barely any discomfort at all. Victor bears down, hungry and desperate. _There_ , finally, Yuuri slides in and doesn’t stop: thrusting, caressing, holding Victor close. His hips move back and forth, skin rubbing on skin, Yuuri’s breath on Victor’s face, in his mouth, whispering into his skin.

Victor _loves_ it, oh god. This is beyond being cherished, and he doesn’t care, it’s better, it’s a complete rush. It’s a thousand times better than anything he’d dreamed up a year ago, it’s better than any marriage vow. Victor’s spreading and expanding and everything is bright and sparkling and

 _Fuck_.

He comes with a shout, pleasure flowing through him in white-hot rainbow waves. Yuuri cries out a moment later as he comes, trembling and clinging to him, murmuring words in English and Japanese that Victor can’t quite hear, and wouldn’t have the sense to translate anyway.

Yuuri’s breath stabilizes as his orgasm fades, but he’s still trembling from the force of it. Victor feels heavy and languid, utterly relaxed and content. It’s a bit silly, to put so much emphasis on one single bout of love-making, just because it’s in his own bed… but Victor’s going to do it anyway.

 _My Yuuri_ , he thinks hazily as he wraps his arms around Yuuri to hold him tight, so tight, as if he’s trying to meld them together, because he doesn’t want this feeling to end, ever.

Yuuri nuzzles into Victor’s neck. He’s still trembling - or shivering, it’s hard to tell.

“Cold?” murmurs Victor.

“No,” says Yuuri. He pushes against Victor. “I should… we should… wash…”

“There’s time,” protests Victor, holding Yuuri fast.

But Yuuri shakes his head back and forth like it’s a mission, still straining against Victor. There’s a tension around his eyes, and the set of his mouth… Victor has seen it often enough to know when Yuuri needs space.

He unhooks his arms around Yuuri, hesitating just enough to make sure that Yuuri knows how much he’d rather Yuuri stay. “All right.”

The relief on Yuuri’s face is immediate. The way Yuuri keeps one hand on Victor’s chest, fingers pressing lightly into his skin, is much more of a reassuring reward for Victor’s selflessness.

“I’ll be right back,” Yuuri whispers to him. He kisses Victor’s cheek before taking his comfortable, heavy warmth away and replacing it with sheets and blankets that have gone cold on the floor. It’s not nearly as pleasant, and Victor curls in on himself, feeling sore and hollow and completely happy with the world.

There’s some clattering in the bathroom before Yuuri moves to the closet in the hall. Victor can hear him shifting towels and sheets and blankets back and forth.

“Um,” says Yuuri, crawling into the bed with Victor. “I couldn’t find any washcloths.”

“Don’t have any,” mumbles Victor as he shifts to snuggle up against Yuuri.

“You’re going to get sticky.”

“Good, then maybe you’ll stick with me.” It’s a terrible joke, which is why he makes it. So boring making good jokes all the time.

“Not something you should worry about,” says Yuuri, amused. He presses his nose into Victor’s neck. There’s something wrong with the statement, but Victor is still too blissed out to figure it out. “We should probably get up soon.”

“Mmm.”

Victor keeps on drifting as Yuuri’s fingers move up and down his back, his heart beating under Victor’s ear. He doesn’t want to move. Another surprise, because Victor’s always restless after sex, but just now, he’s content to be still and silent.

For a little while, anyway. At least Victor’s not counting the minutes as he’s done with previous lovers.

Gradually, his mind begins to settle, and of course it settles on the ice. Specifically, his free skate program, which is still so much a work in progress that to call it a “work” at all is a stretch of imagination Victor is sure Yakov is not going to be willing to make.

The obvious plan is to skate something about himself and Yuuri – after all, that’s essentially the subject of his short program, looking for and finding not only Yuuri, but everything that Yuuri represents: love and life, home and family. The sense that with Yuuri, Victor has found completion in a way that success on the ice has never given him.

But as happy as Yuuri makes him – how excited Victor is to start this new venture with him – the idea of putting what they’re experiencing now on the ice bores him to tears. It’s exactly what everyone would expect – and Victor’s made a career of doing the opposite. Leaving the ice, moving to Japan, coaching Yuuri – let alone bringing Yuuri back to Saint Petersburg at all – is exactly the opposite of what anyone expected Victor to do, which is why it’s exactly what they’ll expect him to skate. He’s hardly going to cater to their expectations now.

(Assuming anyone even bothers with those anymore. He knows Yakov gave up on such illusions at least five years before.)

 _Not something you should worry about_.

The words float up from nowhere – clearly, part of Victor’s brain is still drifting. Yuuri – self-deprecating, anxiety-ridden Yuuri. As if Victor isn’t well-aware that Yuuri’s braver than Victor ever had cause to be. After all, it’s not _Victor_ who had to leave his family and friends and _country_ behind in order to excel at his chosen field. Victor never had to battle his own insecurities in order to be the best. In comparison, Victor’s life has been easy – and one day, Yuuri might realize there’s not much substance under the cheerful façade, and find someone who can commiserate and understand the struggles Yuuri’s endured.

Yuuri shifts under Victor. “Victor? It’s after nine.”

“That late? We should probably go,” says Victor, glad to be pulled out of his unexpectedly dismal reverie. He pushes up to his hands and smiles down at Yuuri, whose hair is still an adorable mess. “Are you ready?”

“No,” says Yuuri, utterly serious. “But I’m going with you anyway.”

“Good!” says Victor brightly. He hops out of the bed before he gives into the temptation to kiss Yuuri, which would only end up delaying them another hour or two or three. “I’m going to shower, why don’t you pack our skating bags? Bring everything we’ll need – there’s lockers we can use. There’s a trick to the shower controls so you don’t burn yourself to a crisp, let’s see if I remember it.”

*

He doesn’t remember the trick, and ends up scalding half his body before he’s able to adjust the temperature.

He’s trying to decide if it’s worth taking Yuuri to the sauna in the basement of the apartment building, or it it’ll just end up disappointing them both, when he hears Yuuri’s knock on the bathroom door.

“Victor? I think I read the clock wrong. It can’t be 9am, it’s too dark outside.”

“Eh?” says Victor, confused for a moment, before he realizes. “ _Oh_. No, the clock’s right, Yuuri. The sun hasn’t risen yet, that’s all. Very common mistake.”

“But… it’s _after 9am_.”

“ _Yuuuuu-ri_ ,” sings Victor. “You’ve heard of Saint Petersburg’s famous white nights, haven’t you? This is the opposite. The sun rises at ten, it’ll set around four.”

There’s a pause. “ _Six hours of sunlight?_ That’s _it_?”

“For now. Wait until July, you’ll be begging for December.”

*

The sky is beginning to lighten as they finally step outside into the morning air. Victor breathes in the scent of Saint Petersburg. It’s not clean and fresh like Hasetsu, and there’s a definite aftertaste of engine exhaust and concrete, but it’s _home_. Even if it’s terrible, he’s not going to take it for granted. There’s a slight ding from Victor’s phone as he gets a text notification; he pulls it out of his coat pocket to check.

 **Yakov:  
** _At least tell me you’re awake._

Victor smiles and starts typing a reply. Yuuri huddles in his own coat, having refused to use one of Victor’s.

“I’m not showing up for my first day in one of your coats!” he’d exclaimed, scandalized. As if Victor had suggested wearing Victor’s shirt and pants and skates.

Or his team jacket. The frisson that goes through his body with _that_ image is delightful, and Victor promptly saves it to memory for further examination later.

“Which way?” asks Yuuri, squinting at the brightest part of the sky, where they still can’t see the sun for the buildings that surround them.

“Pavel is straight ahead,” replies Victor, without looking up from his phone.

“I thought we were close enough to walk,” says Yuuri.

“Only if we want to freeze first. We’ll be able to walk when the weather is warmer. Usually I work out here first. There’s a very nice gym in the basement; it’s one of the reasons I chose this apartment.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri. He’s transfixed by the city as Pavel drives them to the _Sportivnyy dvorets Chempionov_. Despite the nighttime appearance, the streets and sidewalks are teeming with people and cars, bundled up against the cold, carrying carry-alls and shopping bags and umbrellas. It’s not a long drive before they’re on a bridge over the river. If Yuuri lets his eyes slide out of focus, he can pretend they’re still in Hasetsu, heading for the Ice Castle.

The illusion is shattered when he turns his gaze to the complex waiting just on the other side of the river, in the same location as the Ice Castle in Hasetsu. Except instead of a raised building that resembles a warehouse, he sees a low, dark building with tall windows overlooking the river.

Yuuri has only ever seen pictures of the rink from the inside - but he recognizes the windows anyway.

 _That’s it_ , realizes Yuuri, his stomach dropping. _That’s Yubileynyy. I didn’t realize it was on the river, too._

They turn off the main road shortly after crossing the bridge. The car pulls to a stop to wait for iron gates to open. After a moment, they pull in through the gates with a soft thump as the pavement ends and the road turns into gravel. It’s a brief ride up to the entrance on the city-side of the building.

“Wow,” says Yuuri, eyes going wide as they go through the security at the main gate. “That’s… a lot of security.”

“Is it? I never noticed,” says Victor, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Yakov says we’re to report to Valentina Maratovna before we go looking for him. And we should drop off our skates to be sharpened so they’re ready for us this afternoon.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri. “You talked to her on the phone from Hasetsu, didn’t you? You never said who she is.”

“She’s the head of the Figure Skating Federation of Saint Petersburg. She’s always been very good to me, so I’m sure you’ll like her. She already thinks you’re a good influence on me.”

Yuuri laughs; he’s not sure it’s true, but if anyone’s going to be in his corner, it might as well be someone with some authority. “Okay.”

“We’re here!” says Victor. He opens the door before the car’s even come to a full stop.

“Victor! Wait up!”

Yuuri scrambles out of the car and nearly trips over Victor, who has come to a dead stop on the gravel as he stares at Yuuri with startled eyes. He’s not even breathing, and there’s a curious, almost fearful expression on his face - but just as Yuuri can feel his own face begin to change, expressing his concern, Victor breaks into a determined, relieved smile as he takes Yuuri’s hand firmly in his.

“You all right?” Yuuri asks him.

“Yes, of course, I’m fine. It’s something of a labyrinth in there, you’ll want to stay close so you don’t get lost,” Victor cautions him, squeezing Yuuri’s hand tightly, as if he’s afraid Yuuri might really end up lost and wandering the halls without him. “All right?”

“Of course,” says Yuuri, as reassuringly as he can manage.

The skating complex looks as if it was built by two warring architectural styles. The entryway where Victor leads them is squat, a brilliant blue building with a wide set of steps. Tall blue and white columns flank oversized wooden doors. Yuuri can’t quite pinpoint the inspiration behind it, whether it’s meant to evoke actual European palaces or just a Greco-Roman sophistication, but there’s something about it that seems extremely official. On its own, it would be impressive; however it’s dwarfed by the large, very obviously Soviet-era glass-and-concrete structure that’s been erected around it.

“I didn’t realize it was so _big_ ,” says Yuuri as Victor pulls him up the steps.

“I’m not the only one who trains here, you know,” says Victor lightly, pushing open one of the wooden doors.

If the exterior wasn’t enough to impress Yuuri, the lobby does the rest. Marble floors are flanked by tall marble columns that span the two additional levels. An oversized Russian flag hangs from the highest marble balcony. There’s multiple small glass-lined cabinets along the walls; Yuuri sees various trophies, medals, and photographs in them, along with small placards describing the contents. He can’t read the Cyrillic - but it doesn’t take much to realize that many of the medals are from the Olympics, dating back fifty years or more.

Their footsteps echo in the vast space. Yuuri can barely believe his eyes.

“I see why you call it a palace.”

“The Soviets always called complexes like these _palaces_ ,” explains Victor. “Though I think the older sections really did house some Grand Duke Someone or other. I can’t remember.”

Heeled shoes echo on the marble floors. “Not likely,” says a severe-sounding woman as she approaches them. Her English is impeccable, with slight British accent that Yuuri finds intimidating. “The entire complex was built in 1965. A fact of which I am sure you are aware, Victor Andreyevich.”

“Valentina Maratovna!” shouts Victor. He ignores her expression and throws his arms wide to give the woman a hug, followed by kisses to both cheeks. “You are lovely as ever.”

“Hmm,” says Valentina Maratovna. She has greying hair that fans out around her face, and a body that might have been thin once, but is now closer to plump. She could be considered grandmotherly – except for the stern look on her face that looks only partially softened by Victor’s hug. “I see Japan has only made your charm worse. And this is Katsuki, _da_?”

“Katsuki Yuuri,” says Victor. He sounds so proud, Yuuri thinks he might burst.

Yuuri bows low – he can’t help it, and if anyone’s going to be upset, he figures he’d rather know now. “ _Ochen’ priyatno_ , Maratovna-san.”

Victor laughs and claps his hands. “Oh, that’s perfect.”

“Hmm!” says Valentina Maratovna. Yuuri isn’t sure if she’s pleased or not. It’s strangely hard to tell. “But perhaps with surnames, and not patronymics.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, eyes going wide. “I’m sorry, I thought—”

“Yes, well, Victor is a terrible cultural guide, in addition to neglecting proper introductions. My full name is Valentina Maratovna Vorontsova. You may call me Valentina Maratovna. _Ochen’ priyatno._ Victor, have you given this boy a tour of the city yet? You at least pointed out Men’shikovsky Palace, _da_? You only pass it on your way here.”

Victor rubs the back of his neck and rocks back on his heels. “We did just arrive last night. I thought it could wait until this weekend.”

“It’s as if you aren’t even Peterburgian,” says Valentina Maratovna with wonder, shaking her head.

“ _VICTOR ANDREYEVICH_!”

The name echoes, bouncing off the marble as it is repeated with varying degrees of excitement. There’s a massive stampede of feet, and then the lobby is crowded with people. Yuuri barely manages to stay on his feet – and of course there’s no chance of him staying close to Victor with the crush of newcomers anxious to welcome him home. The hall echoes with cheerful Russian, and Yuuri watches from the side, eyes wide. It’s a mix of people in business attire, medical scrubs, and workout clothes. Athletes and dancers and even the janitors have come over to greet Victor.

“Most of them thought he wouldn’t return,” says Valentina Maratovna, standing next to Yuuri. “I will admit, in my darker moments, I thought the same.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri. Victor seems at home, surrounded by people. He doesn’t manage to call every one of them by name, but it’s clear he’s very good at pretending that he knows them, or at least that he hasn’t forgotten them.

“What I cannot tell,” continues Valentina Maratovna, “is if you brought him back, or if he brought you.”

Yuuri isn’t entirely sure, either. He doesn’t think it would be a good idea to mention that, though.

“I suppose in the end, it doesn’t matter. You’re here, and we shall make the best of. it. _REBYATA!_ ” shouts Valentina Maratovna, and then continues in Russian. The crowd doesn’t seem perturbed, though they do make their way back into the bowels of the palace.

A few stop and smile at Yuuri, giving him a cheerful wave as they head back to wherever they belong. There’s more than a few who eye him suspiciously too. Yuuri tries to smile back, but he can’t shake the heat of the frowns.

_Well… I knew I wasn’t going to be universally liked, even with a national championship. I was just hoping there wouldn’t be out-and-out disapproval!_

“I’m sorry, I should have introduced you,” Victor apologizes, taking Yuuri’s hand. “Maybe they would have given you their names so I wouldn’t have to try to remember.”

“Your memory is horrific,” Valentina Maratovna tells him. “I have paperwork, please both of you follow me.”

She leads them back through what are clearly business offices. Pictures of figure skaters, gymnasts, swimmers, and divers all line the walls. None of them are marked with names, but Yuuri recognizes the more recent skaters anyway. Plushenko. Medvedeva. Gordeeva. Yagudin. Slutskaya. Berezhnaya.

“Oh!” says Yuuri suddenly, stopping at one of the pictures showing a paired couple. “Kawaguchi Yuko.”

“Hmm?” Victor stops and looks at the picture with him. “She’s Japanese.”

“Yes,” says Valentina Maratovna. “She skates pairs with Alexander Smirnov. You are not the first Japanese to train with Russia, Katsuki Yuuri. Of course, she goes by Yuko Kavaguti now.”

_Oh, that’s right. I forgot._

“Of course,” echoes Yuuri.

_She had to hold Russian citizenship in order to pair with Alexander on the international level. No one’s said anything about giving up my Japanese citizenship. I don’t think they’d want that, would they?_

Valentina Maratovna is already walking away. When Victor’s hand begins to tug on Yuuri’s, he follows.

_But it’s not like I’m skating pairs with Victor - even when we’re married, I’ll still be able to compete for Japan, and he for Russia._

_Won’t we?_

“Here’s my favorite,” Victor whispers to Yuuri as he points out one of the older pictures. The black-and-white photograph shows a young man skating on his right foot in a perfectly formed arabesque. There’s a stern, focused expression on his face, and a head of hair that rivals Georgi’s. It’s a beautiful image, and though the man himself is not particularly handsome, he has a certain quality that makes Yuuri think he was a formidable opponent on the ice.

“Okay,” says Yuuri, confused. “Who—?”

Victor grins.

“ _Oh_ ,” breathes Yuuri. “Is that…?”

“Yakov,” confirms Victor, delighted.

Yuuri breaks into a smile, staring wide eyed at the picture. “That’s _fantastic_.”

“I know!” agrees Victor.

“He’s got so many _sequins_.”

“Sometimes I like to pretend he’s still wearing that costume under his coat!”

“If you two are done,” says Valentina Maratovna, somewhat impatiently, as she stands at the door to her office. Victor and Yuuri file in, still giggling.

There are two stacks of papers on her desk with pens sitting on top, waiting in front of two precisely placed chairs. Victor pauses for only the barest of moments before he sits in front of the larger pile; Yuuri cautiously sits next to him. Of course there’d be papers to sign - but even the small pile in front of him is more than he’d anticipated.

_They’re not going to make me sign away my first-born, are they?_

Valentina Maratovna sighs heavily, reaches forward, and deftly picks up both stacks and switches their places.

Yuuri’s mouth drops open at the suddenly mountainous pile of papers sitting in front of him.

_Goodbye, first-born child, it was nice knowing you._

“The same as usual,” Valentina says. Victor picks up his pen and begins to sign. Yuuri can’t see his face, but he recognizes the tense line on the back of his neck. The scratch of his pen is forceful, direct, and impatient.

_He wasn’t expecting this either. Or maybe he’d forgotten it was something to expect._

Yuuri picks up the first page, not terribly surprised to find it’s written entirely in Cyrillic. It’s almost blinding to look at the heavy script; written Russian always seems like it’s _shouting_. It’s probably too much to hope that the letters will magically reform themselves into the softer, more gentle curves of katakana.

Victor works quickly next to Yuuri, scratching his name to each page before turning it briskly to the side. Yuuri’s sure he’s not even bothering to look at what the pages say.

 _Goodbye Victor’s first-born, too_ , thinks Yuuri wryly.

“You’ll want to arrange for lockers,” Valentina Maratovna tells Victor.

“I have a locker,” says Victor absently.

“You _had_ a locker. We did not think you would return, so it was put back into circulation. You can ask if it’s still available. The things you left in it are in Yakov’s office. Stop in at the ballet studios, I have no idea where you have been assigned.”

“Yulia,” says Victor, flipping another page. “Yakov’s already arranged it.”

Valentina Maratovna shrugs. “Check anyway, you know things change at the last minute. Your afternoon skate is at four o’clock; I would not advise being late. You know how Yakov gets.”

Victor’s voice is pleasantly cool. “I know. We intend to stay the rest of the day.”

“Good. The best way of getting over jet lag--”

“--is work,” Victor finishes for her. “I remember. And I have a great deal of work to do if I’m going to be ready for Europeans in another month.”

There’s a pause. The only sound is the scratching of Victor’s pen and the swish of signed paperwork in the air.

“Europeans,” says Valentina flatly.

“Of course. My short program is complete and the free skate is coming along very well. I think you will be pleased.” Victor drops the pen back on the desk. “Done. Come on, Yuuri, we need to drop our skates off for sharpening.”

“I… haven’t even started yet!” says Yuuri, looking up from the document which is still annoyingly in Cyrillic.

“Yuuri,” chides Victor as he reaches for one of the papers. “Here, I’ll help.”

Valentina slams her hand on top of the papers before Victor can pull one away. “Are you married yet? No? Then these are private, confidential forms and I cannot in good conscience let you assist Katsuki with them. Besides, you have enough to do before you begin work. Take Katsuki’s skates for him and collect your locker assignments. By the time you are done, I’ll be ready to return him.”

 _I don’t like the way she says that_ , thinks Yuuri, alarmed.

Victor doesn’t seem to like it much either, given the way his mouth narrows. “It can wait. And Yuuri should know where the sharpener is, anyway.”

Valentina’s hand doesn’t move. “Is Katsuki grown man? Does he need help signing his name?”

“No, but he could use help with translating the stack of Russian you just gave him,” countered Victor hotly.

Victor’s ears are growing redder by the moment - Valentina, on the other hand, still looks cool as a cucumber. She’s even smirking a little - though there’s not much amusement in it.

“Fine,” she says, removing her hand from the stack of papers. “I’m sure whatever Sokolov has to tell you can wait.”

Victor’s mouth narrows. “Sokolov,” he says flatly.

“You remember him, Victor, of course you do. Ivan Guryevich Sokolov? In the public relations office? I know it’s been some time but you and he worked extensively together. He asked if you could stop by. He wants to discuss your presentation with Yuuri for the New Year’s telecast.”

Yuuri glances back and forth between them. _Telecast?_

Victor shakes his head. “We’re going to Yakov’s for New Year’s.”

“No, you’re not,” says Valentina Maratovna patiently. “You’re going to present at the New Year’s broadcast, the same as you have done every year.”

“Because I was the National Champion,” says Victor pointedly. “Which I am no longer. Ask Yura.”

Valentina Maratovna’s eyes are narrow slits, and her voice is so cold that Yuuri shivers. “You are Victor Nikiforov. Russia is _considering_ sending you to Worlds despite not being the National Champion, or participating in the Grand Prix events, or any other of the duties required of you and which you have chosen to ignore for the past eight months. I would also like to take this time to remind you that the main body of the Figure Skating Federation of Russia will be here in two weeks in order to assess you and your skating programs with the sole purpose of determining if you are still fully prepared to represent Russia at the international level. You will go to Worlds based on their decision, the details of which will not be disclosed to anyone _including_ you. So I would very strongly suggest that when you leave this office you make your way to Sokolov without any delay and agree to whatever fool scheme he has for your presentation during the New Year’s broadcast. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Yuuri can’t even breathe. The temperature in the office is so cold that he wonders if it dropped ten degrees. The way Valentina says Victor’s name would be worrying enough - as if he’s a brand name and not a person - but there’s something else that bothers Yuuri even more.

_Assessment? What assessment? Victor never said anything about needing an assessment in order to go to Worlds…_

Victor doesn’t look the least bit surprised. In fact, his jaw is tight with tension; he stares at Valentina as if he’s trying very desperately not to burst.

_Why didn’t he tell me about an assessment?_

“But by all means,” continues Valentina Maratovna. “Stay. Translate. Who knows, perhaps while you’re here, I’ll realize I forgot to include something that perhaps Katsuki would want to read.”

Victor’s hand grips the back of Yuuri’s chair so tightly his knuckles are white, and his mouth is a thin line of pink. There’s a tension in him that Yuuri’s sure he’s never seen before – as if a single wrong word or wrong breath would snap him into shards.

Yuuri’s heart thumps. His gaze flicks back and forth from the enormous pile of papers in front of him to the thinly veiled tension on Victor’s face. _I’m already signing every piece of paper in this building. Even if she did forget to give me something - would she have enough paper to print it out?_

“I understand,” says Victor, his voice thin and cold.

“Good. Please close the door on your way out, Victor.” Valentina Maratovna’s voice is so soft and cool that the only reason Yuuri can hear her at all is because his heart has stopped beating.

“All right,” says Victor. He stands up, and is about to clap his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder when he suddenly swoops down to give him a swift kiss on the cheek goodbye. Yuuri’s not entirely sure the kiss was for his benefit, given the way Valentina looks away with an impatient sigh. “I won’t be long.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, still looking at the stack of papers.

Victor gives a sharp nod and goes. The door slams behind him.

And then they’re alone.

Yuuri turns back to the pile of papers in front of him. The blood is slowly flowing back into his fingers; his heart is slowly beginning to restart.

_It’s fine. It’s fine. Victor’s doing so well. The only reason he didn’t say about an assessment in two weeks is because he knows he’ll be able to skate right through it. He’ll be at Worlds with me._

Yuuri sets the paper slowly back on the pile and rests his hands on his knees. He keeps his back perfectly straight and stares across the desk at Valentina Maratovna, whose hands are clasped on her desk as she stares at him, her lips a thin, bright red line.

“So,” she says slowly, “Katsuki Yuuri. The current Japanese champion in men’s singles for figure skating. But for international competitions: silver from this year’s Grand Prix Final, silver from the Cup of China. A pair of silvers from last year’s Grand Prix, silver at the last three Four Continents, and a gold four years ago from the Asian Winter Games. A pity you were unable to attend the last Olympics.”

“The timing wasn’t exactly right for me,” says Yuuri. He knows he sounds apologetic, but he can’t shake the feeling that he needs to apologize - even if he’s not sure why.

“Hmm.” Valentina Maratovna pulls the stack of papers back to her, turning them to read. “We have put a great deal of effort into giving you this opportunity to train at this facility. You’ll find the staff here runs a very highly developed, intensive program which has turned out champions in multiple disciplines since the 1930s. It’s highly unprecedented that a foreign national would train here, but—” She stares at him. “We would not allow it if you were not here with Victor.”

It’s no less than what Yuuri’s suspected. “I understand, and I appreciate the opportunity you’re giving me.”

“We’ll see if you still believe that in another few months,” says Valentina Maratovna wryly. “It would have been better, perhaps, if you were not quite so accomplished – after all, so much more impressive to prove that a classical Russian training with Russian coaches on Russian soil can change even a sow’s ear into a silken purse, if the sow’s ear did not have even a domestic gold attached to his name, but you will do.”

Yuuri stiffens, and thinks fervently of all the ways he’s grateful to Minako… but says nothing.

Valentina Maratovna hands the first few pages over to Yuuri. “This is a non-disclosure agreement. You are not allowed to discuss your training or the methods of anyone’s training with any person who is not employed within this facility. If they do not work within these walls, they are not allowed to know what happens in them, either. Not the media. Not your parents. Not your sister. Not your friends. Not your competitors. Not your former coaches. Not the drivers. Not random people on the street. No one. Do you have any questions?”

“N-n-no,” stammers Yuuri, taking the document. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Then sign.”

There’s a line at the bottom of the second page; Yuuri supposes that’s where his signature goes. For a moment, he’s not entirely sure if he’s meant to sign his name in Japanese or English – but ends up using both.

_In for a penny. I should probably ask Victor to help me figure out how to write my name in Cyrillic._

There’s another document given to him, and then another, and another. Medical history – which he’s told is current, obtained from the JSF only the previous week, and he just needs to verify that it’s accurate. Identification verification. Security Verification. Acceptance of various fees – “The majority to be paid by your sponsors, this is only documenting for our files” – and after a while, Yuuri loses track of what he’s signing anyway. He just signs, and then finally – there aren’t any more papers left.

Valentina stacks the papers neatly on her desk and stands. “Victor might be your coach, Katsuki Yuuri – but you are one of us now. You have full use of our facilities – from the coaches and the staff to the trainers and doctors. Use them. Learn to trust them. We want you to excel. You must believe this.”

“Of course,” says Yuuri.

_She’s leading up to something – but what?_

Valentina’s expression doesn’t change – but somehow, the mood in the office becomes charged.

“It’s rare for a foreign athlete to receive a Russian visa for anything except competition and tourism,” says Valentina. “Very rare. Very difficult to obtain. Even more difficult to keep. We expect great things from you, Katsuki Yuuri. You are here at Russian expense - as long as that expense remains monetary in nature, however, then you will not disappoint us. It would be a shame if you were to lose your ability to remain in Saint Petersburg with Victor, let alone utilizing this facility. I hope I am making myself clear.”

Yuuri’s stomach drops.

_Was… was that a threat?_

“I… I think so,” says Yuuri slowly.

_Is she actually saying that if I win gold above Russian skaters, they'll revoke my visa?_

“Good,” says Valentina. “Please enjoy your time here. You may go.”

_If they revoke my visa, I’d have to go home._

_And if Victor leaves with me – that’d be the end of his career. If he stays, it’d be the end of mine._

“Thank you,” says Yuuri. The bow he offers her is automatic and sharp, even if his mind still reels. Before he’s even aware of moving, he’s back in the hallway, where he slumps against the wall and gives in to the powerful urge to hyperventilate.

_Victor can’t leave skating again. Not a second time, not when it cost us so much to get him back here. I can’t let him down like that. I can't win gold at Worlds now, not if we both want to keep competing._

He looks up, right at the photograph of Yakov Feltsman as a young man.

_Of course you were a skater before you became a coach. And now Victor’s a coach, just like you. It probably goes like that, all the way to when figure skating became a sport and not just a bunch of people goofing around on the ice. One after the other after the other. A great Russian tradition, generations of Russian coaches training Russian skaters who become Russian coaches who train Russian skaters._

_Until me._

“Oh, good, you’re done!” calls out Victor from down the hall. Yuuri’s relieved to see the same energetic smile on Victor’s face – until he notices that it’s covering a faintly annoyed veneer. Yuuri doesn’t _think_ it’s aimed at him – but it still puts him on edge. “Let’s go find our lockers, and then maybe a tour and then lunch?”

“Okay,” says Yuuri. He pushes off from the wall.

Victor takes his hand almost immediately, threading his fingers through Yuuri’s. There’s a gentle squeeze that in no way matches the tension in Victor’s eyes - but already, the slope of his shoulders is softer, and the way Victor holds fast to Yuuri’s hand…

“So much to show you,” murmurs Victor. “Oh, I know, we’ll start with the ballet studios. They aren’t quite Minako’s studio, but you’ll like them--”

Victor chatters away, pulling Yuuri past the photographs of champion skaters, and back into the general hum of the complex.

 _Valentina’s right, though_ , thinks Yuuri, only half listening to Victor _. They’re only tolerating me because of Victor. I’ve got to show that I’m worth the trouble, or they’d be justified in sending me away._

_Within these walls, he’s not my fiancé – he’s my coach. I have to remember that._

_Or after Worlds… he might not be anything to me at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason this chapter is being posted late is because, as I mentioned on Tumblr, my betas and I got into a nearly-week-long discussion of the training facility in Saint Petersburg. You know, the blue building with the glass-enclosed structure where Yakov trains his skaters? A lot of our discussion centered on the fact that apparently, no one can find it in Saint Petersburg.
> 
> Turns out there’s a reason for that. It’s not in Saint Petersburg – it’s in Moscow, as discovered by [tumblr user maehustisya](http://maehustisya.tumblr.com/post/156256710998/yuri-on-ice-team-russia-skating-rink). Her original post includes reference screenshots, as well as an interesting theory about why YOI’s animators chose to use this location instead of the more obvious [Yubileynyy Sports Palace](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yubileyny_Sports_Palace) in Saint Petersburg, which is actually used by many Russian figure skaters for training. Tumblr user (and my beta) auntiesuze [added additional pictures of the original building](https://auntiesuze.tumblr.com/post/161352645280/yuri-on-ice-team-russia-skating-rink) which give a better idea of its size and scope. For some reason, maehustisya’s post seems to have gone largely unnoticed, and it seems like most of fandom doesn’t know the inspiration behind Yakov’s training facility. Do fandom researchers solid, folks, and go reblog the hell out of these posts, because that is some impressive legwork on their parts.
> 
> Anyway: since the training facility in YOI is basically made up – I’ve made up a lot of the details here, too (for one thing, the FFKKR’s regional offices would probably not be located in the same place). The overall complex is called the Sports Palace of Champions; the portion of the complex that is dedicated to skating is named Yubileynyy.
> 
> Fun facts about how SpB apartments are heated - https://www.opendemocracy.net/od-russia/mikhail-loginov/winter-in-russia-cold-indoors-as-well-as-out
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Chikushō (Japanese) - Dammit  
> Mne nuzhno... (Russian) - I need...  
> Rebyata (Russian) - Literally 'children', but in this context it's more like 'people'


	9. Meeting the (Russian) (Skating) Family

Victor takes a moment to collect himself after leaving Valentina Maratovna’s office. It’s been a long time since he was dressed down by anyone in the skating world, apart from Yakov. He’s not sure he likes the feeling now that he remembers it.

_Don’t forget. This is what you are, this is what we have made you to be, this is what you wanted to be. Remember it going forward._

Victor closes his eyes and gently knocks the back of his head against the wall where he’s leaning. It doesn’t hurt – it’s not _meant_ to hurt – but it’s a reminder of all the hundreds of times he’s had to relearn this lesson in the past.

It’s true, at least. It’s what he wanted to be, it’s what he spent years working to become. The people in the building only helped him along the way: he owes himself to live up to it, as much as he owes them.

Valentina’s words echo in the back of his mind.

_Who knows, perhaps while you’re here, I’ll realize I forgot to include something that perhaps Katsuki would want to read…_

The blood rushes so fast into Victor’s head that he’s dizzy. It’s either anger, or guilt, and Victor’s not entirely sure which.

_It’s stupid,_ Victor tells himself. _It’s nothing. She’s playing games with me. That’s all._

The sound of a door closing further down the hall echoes a little bit. Victor straightens up from where he’s been leaning against the wall. He stares intently at Yakov’s photograph opposite him, as if studying it, until the footsteps die away and he’s left alone again.

Almost alone. Now that his eyes have focused, he can see Yakov’s determined grimace glaring back out at him. It’s still completely incongruous with the sequins, but instead of picturing Yakov wearing the ridiculous outfit under his coat, Victor remembers giggling with Yuuri, their heads tipped together in shared amusement. It’s a good memory, for all its smallness.

Yuuri, who sits on the other side of the wall, facing a mountain of paperwork and the single-minded focus of the FFKKR, as personified by Valentina.

_He’ll be fine_ , Victor tells himself, tucking the memory into his heart for courage. Valentina is scrupulously honest, if devious. She’s not going to trick Yuuri into signing anything he shouldn’t, and she’ll tell him exactly what it is he’s signing before she even lets him try to sign it.

It’s impossible, but the further he walks from Valentina’s door, up the stairs and down another corridor of closed doors, the more acutely Victor can feel the distance between he and Yuuri growing. It’s just another reminder of his birthday dream that Victor can’t shake.

_I’m just seeing to some business while he’s occupied. I’m not leaving him behind. I’m not going to abandon him in the snow. I’m coming back._

Ivan Sokolov’s door is ajar; Victor fixes a pleasant smile on his face, knocks gently, and pushes it the rest of the way open. The tension in his shoulders, and the way his body seems to brace itself for unpleasant news, is automatic.

It’s not that Victor doesn’t like Ivan Sokolov. It’s that he never likes what Ivan Sokolov tells him to do.

“Ah, Victor Andreyevich!” greets Ivan warmly. He turns away from his computer and rises, holding out his hand for Victor to shake. He’s a small man with just enough body fat to make him look heavy-set, particularly in comparison with the slender, athletic people surrounding him every day. His face is a soft pink that gives him a perpetually sunburned look, and his blond-turned-ash hair is so much thinner than it was the last time Victor saw him that Victor has to fight the urge to touch his own head. “And where is your handsome fiancé?”

Victor can’t help the soothing relaxation that comes with hearing Russian spoken and knowing he gets to respond in kind. It’s not that he _minds_ the English spoken for Yuuri’s benefit – or the translation he suspects he’ll be doing in the future weeks and months – but just now, without the pressure of having to translate for himself or anyone else, he’s reminded again of how good it is to be home.

Victor grins as he grasps Ivan’s hand and gives it a vigorous shake. “Being lectured by Valentina Maratovna, I suspect. She had a mountain of papers for him to sign.”

“Of course,” says Ivan. He gestures for Victor to sit. “This shouldn’t take long, it’s just a quick run-through of your presentation during the festivities—”

“Yes, about that. I’m not the Russian Champion any longer, Ivan. This should be Yura, not me.”

Ivan shakes his head. “You’re still Russia’s Champion, even if you don’t hold the title. Yuri will participate, of course, but the circumstances of your return – well, you understand. There’s a great deal of interest in you and your fiancé. We believe it would be best if we capitalized on that.”

Victor tries to quell the sudden feeling of distaste. “I’m not sure Yuuri will want—”

“It’s not very taxing,” Ivan reassures him. “Just a little pre-recorded segment. We thought you might like to play tour guide. You spent months seeing the sights of Japan with him after all, and Saint Petersburg is lovely in the snow.”

Victor can’t help the annoyance that creeps into his response. “We didn’t really have a lot of time for _tourism_ , considering Yuuri’s skating competitions.”

Ivan shrugs. “They just want to record you visiting a few sights. And then, perhaps arriving at the studio to greet the audience and show him how much the Russian people appreciate him being here.”

Victor’s smile is thin; he can only imagine how well Yuuri would like _that_ idea. “Yuuri doesn’t speak Russian very well yet.”

“Ah.” Ivan deflates only for a moment. “Well, perhaps the writers can make something of that. Can he sing? There was talk about you both singing Yuri a lullaby before you go sightseeing. Putting the ‘baby’ to bed, so to speak.”

“I’m going to assume you haven’t mentioned that plan to Yura, because there aren’t any scorch marks on your walls.”

Ivan laughed. “All right, maybe Yuri can skate Agape for us instead. An outdoor rink, snow falling gently – that could be lovely.”

“So’s pneumonia.” Victor’s not sure what’s gotten into him, but Ivan doesn’t call him on his rudeness. All Victor knows is that he seems predisposed to disagree with every word coming out of Ivan’s mouth.

_It’s not like I didn’t know Ivan would be desperate to have me in his clutches again._

_I just… forgot._

“He’ll be fine. You and Yuuri can record your segments tomorrow, that will give the studio time to do any necessary editing—”

“No,” says Victor. “I’m supposed to be working. The Europeans are in less than a month, and I have to prepare for them.”

Ivan raises an eyebrow. “Europeans? I hadn’t realized you were going.”

“I am,” says Victor calmly.

“Well. It’s only one afternoon,” says Ivan with a shrug. “Four hours. That’s plenty of time to give him the highlights.”

“Ivan—”

“Victor.” Ivan’s voice turns serious. “You know better than to brush this off. This is part of your job, every bit as important as landing your quad flip.”

Victor’s blood runs a bit colder.

“How _is_ the quad flip, Victor?” continues Ivan with his pleasant, oh-so-sympathetic smile. It’s as much a mask as the one Victor’s wearing. “Be a shame if your vacation in Japan was detrimental to your performance.”

_He knows._

Victor isn’t sure he can breathe. Ivan smiles at him, pleasant and friendly, and Victor racks his brain trying to think of who knows about his inability to land all his quads. Every name on the list is someone he trusts.

_“Don’t mess with Ivan Guryevich, Vitya,” said Yakov after Victor had skipped yet another interview with an international sports magazine halfway through his last year on the Junior circuit. “If he tells you to do something, you do it. Do you remember what happened to Anatoly Ivanov?”_

_“He got sick. What’s that to do with Sokolov?” shrugged Victor._

_“Because Anatoly didn’t get sick. He missed one too many interviews, and now he’ll waste away running the best ice skating rink in some forgotten town in Siberia. It’s not only ability on the ice that makes or breaks a career. Don’t let what Vanya did to Anatoly happen to you.”_

“Give me the schedule, please,” says Victor, feeling the blood roiling in his veins again. He takes the paper Ivan hands him and studies the schedule. It’s… not so bad, though it’s jam-packed with things to see, far more than either of them would really be able to enjoy in four hours. “I can’t possibly show all of this to Yuuri in four hours. It would take that long to see one of these things properly. And I haven’t even _been_ to half of them—”

Ivan waved his hand. “ _Touring_ them is not necessary. All we need are pictures of the two of you in front of them, looking awed and inspired. You can visit them ‘properly’ on your own time.”

It’s less than ideal, but… “Fine. But not during our ice time.”

“Of course not. Would tomorrow after lunch suit?”

“And no studio appearance. We are going to Yakov’s party, and we are not leaving until after midnight.”

Ivan’s mouth thins out. Victor’s chest throbs – but he doesn’t drop his gaze.

_I’m still Victor Nikiforov. If they want me to do something this badly… I can push a little. A very little. Let’s see if they push back._

“All right,” says Ivan finally. Victor lets himself smile a bit. “But they will want something from you both later. You realize that, of course.”

“After Europeans,” says Victor, relieved. “If there’s nothing else?  I do need to get on the ice today.”

“We’re done for now,” says Ivan. He sounds a little sore still, but Victor doesn’t care about his feelings or what excuses he’ll make to the television studios. “I’ll be in touch about your other obligations after Christmas. Thank you, Victor. I’m sure you and Yuuri will turn out a wonderful performance.”

_I should have remembered I was coming back to this. I should have known they’d want to rope Yuuri into it too._

“We’ll do our best,” says Victor. He’s in the stairwell when he finally gives into the urge to kick the wall.

The sound and feel of his foot hitting the concrete isn’t nearly as satisfying as he’d have thought. His toes throb and there’s not even an echo. Victor presses his forehead against the cold concrete and closes his eyes to think.

_I forgot about this part._

_Fuck._

Victor breathes. Sometimes, the media appearances had been enjoyable. He’d met interesting and varied people on talk shows, he’d flirted with more than his fair share of journalists and camera crew, he’d even had guest spots on popular television dramas and had the fun of costumes and makeup and acting for an audience when ice wasn’t involved. He sort of regretted the whole Eurovision thing, but it had been fun at the time, and was the starting point for a whole litany of escapades he was sure Yuuri would never want to hear.

Most of the time… it was tedious, answering the same questions over and over, sitting under too-hot lights in too-cold studios, pretending along with the interviewers that they knew just as much about the world of figure skating as he did.

_Yuuri’s the last person in the world I would willingly put through a media circus. He’s more comfortable with the spotlight now than he was before, and he was always more media savvy than he thinks. But this isn’t Japan, where they love him, and this isn’t Morooka, who worships him._

_This is Russia. They’re going to turn him into either the pitiful child begging for scraps, or a trained monkey. And I’m not sure I can keep it from happening._

The realization is a stone in his gut. Victor waits until his toes aren’t throbbing before heading back down to Valentina’s office.

He sees Yuuri before Yuuri sees him, standing in the hallway as he stares at the photograph of Yakov. Already, Yuuri looks a little shell-shocked, but there’s a grim determination in the set of his shoulders.

_He’s stronger than he knows. I’ll keep him safe. They’ll love him. It’ll be fine. As long as I pretend it’s all okay – he won’t know any different._

“Oh, good, you’re done!” Victor calls brightly. Yuuri breaks into a smile as Victor jogs down the hallway to join him. “Let’s go find our lockers.”

*

The sports complex is larger than anything Yuuri’s ever seen. There are no maps or signs anywhere, at least not ones that Yuuri can read. But Victor seems to be making a special effort to ensure that Yuuri knows what everything says and where everything is, as if he’s going to be tested later.

_At least he’s losing that pinched look in his eyes,_ thinks Yuuri. _The more he shows me, the happier and more comfortable he gets. I think he didn’t realize how much he missed this place until he was reintroduced to it._

The halls are a maze. Each one looks exactly the same, though Yuuri’s sure he can tell where certain things are based on scent alone. Locker rooms smell like sweat and damp cloth all over the world, and there’s the familiar ozone-scent of ice coming from the other side of the double doors. There’s ballet studios that smell like warm leather and sweat, where dancers practice lifts and spins and arm movements. The weight rooms smell like antiseptic and cold metal, where frighteningly muscular men are willing to help Yuuri and Victor use the various machines. There’s the soft scent of candle wax and aromatic lotions from the massage rooms, Pilates rooms, and acupuncture rooms. The sauna smells warm in a familiar way that still isn’t anything like the onsen, and a nearby swimming pool smells like chlorine.

It doesn’t end there. There’s a gymnastics studio with Olympic-grade equipment and trampolines. There are medical exam rooms. There’s even an on-site x-ray machine. There’s a pharmacy, a wardrobe, fitting rooms, and a small convenience store that sells fruits and sports drinks and snack foods and bandages. There’s a lounge with comfortable chairs and tables scattered throughout, populated with younger athletes clearly trying to cram in a few minutes of studying in between practices and older athletes catching a few moments for a nap. There’s offices upon offices for anyone who has anything to do with sports administration – even if they’re only there once a week. Administrators, psychologists, doctors, acupuncturists, media-savvy Twitter moguls.

“It’s like a figure skating _sanctuary_ ,” says Yuuri, unable to hide the fact that he’s impressed – and a little envious. _If Japan had something like this… I could have stayed instead of going to Detroit._ “Is there anything that _isn’t_ here?”

“Not since you’ve arrived,” says Victor with a cheeky grin as he takes Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri laughs and flushes. “There’s other athletes here, too – gymnasts, speed skaters, a few swimmers. SKA Saint Petersburg uses our rinks for practice space sometimes. The ballet classes run some kind of exchange program with the Vaganova Academy – that’s where Yakov’s wife, Lilia, teaches. There’s a whole other building nearby with additional pools for the divers and synchronized swimmers.”

Yuuri shakes his head, chuckling softly. “I knew it was big, but… I can’t even wrap my head around it yet. The only thing you haven’t shown me is the ice rink.”

“That’s where we’re going now,” says Victor. “Ah, here's the sharpening room. Let’s see if our skates are ready.”

It only takes a few minutes to sharpen their blades; Takeshi had sharpened both pairs shortly after their return from Barcelona. Yuuri sits back and watches as Victor and the sharpener talk back and forth in rapid-fire Russian. The sharpener moves quickly and gracefully, holding the blades so close to his face to visually check them for nicks that Yuuri doesn’t dare breathe, in case the man ends up slicing his face open.

Yuuri has no idea what Victor’s saying – but he can tell the moment when Victor becomes even more excited.

“Yuuri! Yakov’s practice was moved today! It’s usually first thing, but there was a problem with the rink and they’re on the ice _now_. Let’s go say hello!”

“Oh, no,” says Yuuri quickly. “We don’t have to disturb them, I don’t want to impose—”

“I want to show you the other rinks, too – come on!”

The air just gets _colder_ when they approach the ice rinks. _Rinks_ , plural. There’s at least three small rinks where classes are being held for groups of children and novices. None of the rinks are Olympic-size, but then, none of the skaters are very large either.

“How young do they start?” asks Yuuri, staring at the children on one of the smaller rinks. They’re _tiny_. He can’t imagine the students being more than five or six years old. The instructors look to be in their late teens, and there’s a happy, cheerful vibe on the ice that’s similar to Yuuko’s own beginners skating lessons.

Except Yuuko doesn’t teach in a facility where Olympic gold medals are displayed in the entryway, or that has a large Russian flag as a backdrop.

“Group lessons begin at five or six. I learned to skate here, but I didn’t start serious training until I was eight. Yura wasn’t much older when he started attending Yakov’s summer camps. _Georgi_ was born on the front steps. Which explains a lot, really.”

“Vitya, that can’t be true!”

“You can ask him yourself,” says Victor, pushing through a set of double doors.

Yuuri can feel his blood pressure spiking. “Wait, Victor – they’re busy, we shouldn’t bother them….”

The last rink is Olympic-sized, with a wall of windows looking out onto the stark grounds of the estate. Yuuri recognizes it from photographs and news clips of Victor. The ceiling is high, and every sound echoes: blades on ice, someone shouting in Russian, someone else landing a jump. It’s so familiar and comforting that Yuuri almost immediately feels at home, even as he can feel his nerves ratcheting up. There’s far more people than he’d imagined: not just the familiar sight of Yakov and Yura and even Mila – but half a dozen other adults wearing coats and other cold-weather gear, as well as a few younger skaters that Yuuri doesn’t recognize.

It’s busy enough with activity and motion that there’s a chance their intrusion will slip under everyone’s radar. _After all_ , thinks Yuuri, _it’s not as though we’re planning to skate – Victor just wants to show me the rink. And now I’ve seen it, so now we can—_

“Yakov!” shouts Victor, waving his arm vigorously. “ _Privet! My prishly_ _!_ ” 

_—go_ , finishes Yuuri glumly. Thoughts of going unnoticed vanish as every pair of eyes in the rink turns sharply to them.

Yakov skates over, a gruff expression on his face that is completely incongruous with Yuuri’s sudden, wild thought of sequins under his coat. His Russian accent is thicker than normal, as if he’s still having difficulty working his mouth around the English words. “So you decided to join us this morning after all.”

“It was very kind of you to delay morning practice so that we could sleep in a little,” says Victor cheerfully.

Yakov snorts. “You need to warm up well before you step on my ice. Who knows what you did to your bodies on the plane last night.”

“Yuuri wouldn’t let me make it a more interesting flight,” says Victor mournfully. Yakov groans and rubs his face as Yuuri starts to stammer, his face burning bright.

But any protest Yuuri might make is drowned out by a familiar angry voice floating across the ice. “ _POSTAV’ MENYA, BABA_!” 

It’s a relief hearing Yurio’s shouting, even if Yuuri has no idea what he’s saying. Sure, the complex is overly large and complicated; sure, the woman in charge of Victor’s career might have just threatened Yuuri with deportation; sure, Yuuri is jet lagged and therefore floating in space and time and unfamiliar everything… but at least Yuri Plisetsky is still small, angry, and loud.

Yuuri would _hug_ him, if he didn’t think he’d end up ripped into shreds.

“Mila!” roars Yakov, turning to the ice. “ _Postav’ Yuru na zemlyu_!” 

Out on the ice, Mila Babicheva holds Yurio aloft. Despite his kicking and wriggling, she doesn’t seem as if she’s having any trouble keeping him in the air at all. The moment she spies them standing by the doors, her face brightens, and she sets Yurio back down on the ice in a move that would be graceful if Yurio didn’t fight his way through it.

“Vitya!” she calls out, skating over to them so quickly that Yuuri’s surprised she doesn’t vault over the boards. She flings her arms around Victor in an exuberant hug and kisses both his cheeks, still talking. “ _Ty zdes', kak zamechatel'no! Ya zhdala tebya vse utro_.” 

She turns to Yuuri and without warning, pulls him into a hug too, complete with cheek kisses. “And Yuuri! It’s so good to see you here. You were wonderful at the Grand Prix Final, your free skate – it was beautiful.”

“Thank you,” says Yuuri, too amazed and pleased to even think about answering in Russian.

Yakov’s sigh is the most protracted, frustrated sigh Yuuri’s ever heard – and he’s met the triplets’ kindergarten teacher. It’s not much of a surprise when Yakov starts barking out orders in Russian. Mila winces a little bit before responding just a bit meekly, with a sweetly earnest expression on her face that would probably melt the heart of anyone who wasn’t Yakov.

“We’ll talk more this afternoon,” she says to Yuuri with a last squeeze of his hand. She skates back out to the ice with a last wave.

Yuuri barely notices, because his focus is entirely on Yurio, glaring at them from the other side of the boards.

“Yura!” says Victor happily. “Congratulations on your win at Nationals. You skated my program beautifully. It will be a pleasure to skate against you.”

_Oh wow. Yurio’s glare could melt this ice,_ thinks Yuuri. _Along with half the city!_

“You remember Yuuri,” continues Victor, still cheerful, but a little more emphatic now, as if he’s just realizing that Yurio is not one bit happy to see them and he’s trying to make a point.

_Vitya, just stop! I’m sure his eyes have death-rays behind them._

Yurio doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even snort in derision. He just turns and skates away, and there’s no mistaking the anger in the way he attacks the ice with his blades as he builds up speed.

“He hates me,” says Yuuri, watching Yurio go.

“He’s fifteen, he hates everyone,” says Victor.

“You aren’t warming up,” says Yakov. After the flurry of Russian, it takes Yuuri a moment to realize that not only Yakov is speaking English – he’s looking at both of them and expecting a response.

“We’ll skate this afternoon, I just wanted to show Yuuri the ice,” explains Victor, but Yakov shakes his head.

“You can have it for half an hour between sessions. If you want.”

Yuuri sucks in a breath. “ _Yes_ ,” he answers, before even looking at Victor. “I mean… if that’s okay…?”

Victor laughs, but Yuuri can see the excitement in his eyes, too. “Yes, thank you, Yakov.”

The warm-up stretches feel impossibly good. Yuuri relishes the burn in his muscles as he reaches for his toes. By the time they’ve laced up their skates and are ready to step onto the ice, the rest of the skaters are stepping off.

“It’s so good to have you home, Vitya,” says Mila warmly, giving him another kiss. She turns to Yuuri and kisses him too, which makes him stammer and blush. “You too, Yuuri. I hope you think of this as home now, _da_?”

“I hope so, too,” says Yuuri.

Yurio steps off the ice. Yuuri swears that the boy makes a point of shoving him with his shoulder as he passes.

“Yura!” warns Victor.

“Never mind him,” says Mila. “I’m glad you’re here. So is Yakov, even if he doesn’t say it.” She kisses Yuuri’s cheek again.

“I’m getting jealous,” says Victor. Yuuri can’t tell if he’s amused or vaguely territorial.

“Good!” says Mila brightly. “Put that in your program. See you this afternoon!”

“I didn’t see Georgi,” says Yuuri as they skate out to center ice. “I thought Yakov was his coach, too?”

“He usually has a private session with Sasha in the mornings. He might have been there.” Victor comes to a stop at center ice and pulls Yuuri close. “How do you feel? Tired? Sore? Do you have energy to skate something, or do you just want to circle, get a sense for the ice?”

“I’m all right at the moment. Why? What did you have in mind?”

Victor smiles. He pushes away and skates backwards to the boards. “ _Stammi Vicino_. The duet. Whenever you’re ready.”

There’s no music, but it’s not as if Yuuri ever needed it. The music lives under his skin – _has_ lived under his skin for the past year. He waits until Victor’s found his place at the boards, then steps into his opening pose, counts to five, and begins.

The sound of his skates on the ice is familiar and calming as it echoes in the large space. Yuuri lets himself sink into muscle memory.

_It’s an odd choice – we’re not likely to perform this again in public before April, when we both compete at Worlds. But_ , he realizes as Victor comes out to meet him, _I don’t think there’s anything else I’d want to skate right now. I wonder if Victor feels the same?_

The movements aren’t as fluid and smooth as is typical – but as the song goes on, Yuuri feels himself relaxing into it, the worry and anxiety slowly soothed away until he barely notices them at all.

_This is probably where Victor first choreographed this piece. I’m glad it’s the first thing we’re skating, now that we’re here together._

By the time they reach their final poses, hands on each other’s cheeks, foreheads touching, Yuuri is feeling more relaxed and calm than he’s felt in days.

And Victor – Victor’s breathing hard yes, but each breath is a release from tension that Yuuri’s sure neither of them knew he was holding in.

_He’s probably been just as rattled as I am. I should have noticed. He needed this skate as much as I did._

“Good thing you’re smarter than me,” says Yuuri, not quite ready to move.

“You’re the one who still sleeps with his macroeconomics textbook,” says Victor.

Yuuri squeaks indignantly. “ _Vitya_! I do _not_ sleep with—”

Victor turns Yuuri’s face up and kisses him. His lips are cold – and chapped, Yuuri realizes. They’re rough against his lips, which are surely just as bad. Victor breaks off the kiss when Yuuri starts to laugh.

“We should always end the skate this way,” he tells Victor happily.

“With you laughing as I kiss you?”

“With a kiss,” Yuuri corrects him. “You need chapstick.”

Victor rubs his lips together and frowns. “I’ll borrow yours. At least I know I like how it tastes.”

“Vitya!”

Victor unwinds himself from Yuuri and skates away. “We have twenty minutes left. You should work on your quad toe loop a little, it was very shaky in Tokyo. We’ll save the quad flip for this afternoon.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “Yes, Coach.”

By the time the next class starts filing in, Yuuri is slightly damp from perspiration, and much to his surprise, starving.

“Please tell me lunch is next.”

Victor glances at the clock. “Yes. We’ve missed some of it, but that’s all right, there will still be plenty of food.”

“Good,” says Yuuri.

Their lockers aren’t next to each other, but they’re at least close enough that they can hold a conversation without shouting. The locker room is enormous and echoes with other conversations, but even surrounded by Russian and people he’s never met, it’s still familiar ground. The echo of voices, the distant drum of water falling against tile, the slam of shoes being thrown into lockers, the snap of locks clicking closed. If Yuuri closes his eyes, he could pretend he’s back in Detroit, if not his old gym back in Hasetsu.

It’s a measure of comfort he’s not entirely sure he should be so glad to have.

_I’ve barely even been here a day, it’d be stupid to be homesick already_ , Yuuri scolds himself. _This place is amazing – and I really am glad to be here. I’ve got to remember that._

The cafeteria also reminds Yuuri of Detroit. It’s large and loud and boisterous, with tables scattered all over the room and young people laughing and talking amongst themselves. No one really pays much attention to them as they join the line for food. Yuuri thinks he sees a few younger athletes give Victor and Yuuri double-takes, no doubt recognizing one or the other, but none of them approach.

“Do you think you’ll like it here?” asks Victor as he reaches for a tray.

“I think so. Even the facility in Detroit wasn’t this expansive – it only had ice and maybe a few weight machines and a trainer during working hours. We had to go outside for anything else. It’s much more convenient to have everything centralized like this.”

“I’ve always thought so, yes.”

Yuuri glances out the windows – there’s gardens just outside with work crews moving through, tending the empty flowerbeds and sweeping the sidewalks.

_If you never leave, though… the only sunlight you’d ever get to see is on the other side of the glass._

“Yuuri, you need to pick something to eat,” prods Victor. Yuuri pulls his eyes away from the windows and looks at the food on display.

Everything is already portioned out onto small white plates: clearly the cafeteria is a nutritionist’s dream come true.

There are small white plates with orange food, small white plates with green food, small white plates with pink food, with white food, with brown food, with red food. There are small white plates with sliced raw vegetables in an array of patterns and combinations: cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, broccoli, green beans, peas. There are small white plates with cubed potatoes, with thin slices of chicken, with flaky pieces of white fish, with squares of tofu sitting in a slightly yellow broth, with slices of cheese carefully laid into a pattern.

It’s both familiar and strange. Yuuri only vaguely remembers the chicken and rice from the night before, and his stomach has clearly forgotten entirely because it’s starting to rumble with hunger.

It all looks delicious and so very healthy – and apart from the vegetables, Yuuri’s not entirely sure what any of it actually is. He has the feeling if left to his own devices, he’d take one of everything just to try it out.

Which undoubtedly would _not_ go over very well if anyone saw him.

_Just because Valentina Maratovna called me a sow’s ear doesn’t mean I’m going to make a pig of myself,_ thinks Yuuri firmly.

“You choose for me,” says Yuuri to Victor, who narrows his eyes and makes a thoughtful sound.

“All right, for today,” he says finally. He starts pulling plates from the various displays and putting them on their trays.

The closer they get to the end of the line, Yuuri realizes there’s something happening – but it’s not that the skaters are paying for their food. There’s a woman standing at the last station inspecting every single tray, and without fail, every single tray fails to pass her scrutiny. She picks up plates of food from the trays only to discard them on a table behind her, without so much as an apology or explanation. Sometimes she trades one plate out for another, without any rhyme or reason that Yuuri can see. None of the skaters seem to be particularly surprised to lose half the things they intended to eat, though some of the younger ones do look at their lost plates of food longingly, especially when the lost plates are particularly tempting.

“Um, Victor?” Yuuri asks, glancing down at his overflowing tray. _Isn’t this exactly what I was trying to avoid?!?!_

“Oh, look, they have red pepper paprikash today. That’s one of my favorites, you should try it,” says Victor, putting more things on their tray. Yuuri’s tray is so full, it might break if he tried to lift it. He glances at the skaters leaving the line – none of them have more than six or seven saucer-sized plates of food apiece. At last count, Victor has loaded more than a dozen such plates on Yuuri’s tray.

When they reach the end of the line, the woman at the end of it crosses her arms and stares down Victor.

“Victor Andreyevich Nikiforov,” she says.

“ _Zdravstvuyte_ , Anna Anatoliyevna! _Segodnya ty vyglyadish' prekrasno. Chto novyy fartuk_?” 

Whatever Victor has said – and Yuuri vaguely thinks that he’s tried to compliment the woman – it doesn’t seem to have changed her rather dismal opinion of him. In fact, the frown she’s wearing seems to deepen as she continues to stare him down.

Victor continues in Russian, and Yuuri hears his own name with a start.

_Oh! He’s introducing me._

“Yuuri, this is Anna Anatoliyevna,” Victor says, switching back to English. “She decides on the daily menu and sometimes even lets us eat it.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri. He tries to bow, but it’s almost impossible with Victor’s arm around him. “ _Ochen’ priyatno_ , Anna Anatoliyevna-san.”

Anna Anatoliyevna raises an eyebrow, reaches down, plucks half the plates off each of their trays, and puts them on the shelf behind her. “ _Ochen’ priyatno_.”

She doesn’t sound entirely convinced that she’s glad to be meeting Yuuri – but then, Victor’s the one receiving the distrustful looks.

When she starts _scolding_ him, though – Yuuri still has no idea what she’s saying, but Victor looks more and more sheepish the more she says it. Every attempt he makes to say a word in his own defense is immediately shot down.

“Uh – Victor?”

Anna Anatoliyevna turns to Yuuri. Her eyes are narrowed she looks as if she’s ready to kick Victor straight out of the cafeteria. “Victor. No control you. You, you choose food. Not Victor. _You_.”

“Ooookay,” says Yuuri. He glances at Victor. “I’ll choose my own food next time.”

“Good!” says Anna Anatoliyevna. Her hand hovers over the red pepper paprikash on Victor’s tray. Yuuri doesn’t dare look at Victor, but he knows Victor is holding his breath.

Finally, Anna Anatoliyevna removes a slice of chocolate cake and replaces it with an apple.

Victor lets out a relieved sigh. “ _Spasibo_ , Anna Anatoliyevna.”

“Hmm!” Anna Anatoliyevna reaches back, picks up a second plate of the paprikash and puts it on Yuuri’s tray.

“ _Spasibo_ ,” says Yuuri. He receives only a grunt in response before he hurries after Victor.

“What _was_ that?” he whispers to Victor as they sit down. It’s the only empty table in the entire cafeteria. Yuuri looks wistfully at the windows, wishing they were a bit closer since it was likely to be his only chance at sunlight for the day.

“Hmm? Oh. She was upset that I was choosing your food for you. I tried to explain that you asked me to do it, but.” Victor shrugs. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure why she’d mind so much, especially when she’s the one who always takes half the plates away in the end.”

“No, I got that part. Who _is_ she, though?”

“Nutritionist,” explains Victor. “I used to eat all my meals here. We don’t have to pay for them, which is why people eat here all the time. And everything is very healthy and very good for you. But…” He picks up a spoon and taps one of the plates, overflowing with cucumbers and tomatoes and dill. “Very boring every day for seventeen years. And when you’re a teenager battling a growth spurt”—Victor shrugs and bounces the tines of his fork off a tomato—“it’s never really enough.”

“Seventeen years,” repeats Yuuri. It’s easy to imagine a teenaged version of Victor smiling brightly at the nutritionist, hoping for an extra plate of the same red pepper paprikash that the 28-year-old Victor is currently devouring.

_No wonder he was always so happy to eat anything Mom put in front of him_ , thinks Yuuri _._

“So you didn’t have breakfast or dinner at home?”

“This _was_ home,” says Victor. “Many of the athletes here live with their coaches or in dormitories nearby. You don’t really have a choice, when you’re training for five or six hours a day every day – especially when your family lives very far away. I was lucky to be able to stay at home as long as I did since we lived in Saint Petersburg. When I started winning, though?” Victor shrugs. “My training became so intense, it made more sense to stay in the dorms. Without the commute, I could spend another two or three hours on the ice every day.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, startled. _That’s… that’s more than half his life that Victor lived here. No wonder it’s home to him_. He glances at the other skaters. “I guess I could have trained somewhere other than Hasetsu when I was younger, before Detroit, but… nothing like this exists in Japan. Or anywhere else that I’ve seen.”

Victor’s smile is proud. “That’s because it _doesn’t_ exist anywhere else. This is one of the best training centers in the whole _world_.”

_And Yurio started coming here when he was nine_ , Yuuri remembers, suddenly realizing how young some of the children in the room are.

“It wasn’t so bad,” says Victor quickly. He’s smiling a bit fondly, remembering. “They become your family, the people here.”

Yuuri glances around the cafeteria again while Victor continues to eat. It’s loud with cheerful, happy voices: people calling back and forth to each other, laughing and making jokes. Across the room, there’s a group of girls teasing each other and giggling as they look through a magazine. None of them are much older than fifteen or sixteen; they could be wearing school uniforms and relaxing in between physics and literature lessons, instead of wearing tracksuits and ponytails, fresh from the ice or gymnastics studio. There’s a few young men and women discussing a newspaper article they’re reading, a group of teenagers frantically doing their homework by the windows, and Yuuri even sees a few people flirting with each other under the direct noses of their otherwise oblivious friends.

_Or maybe not so oblivious_ , thinks Yuuri, as the friends elbow each other with pleased glances at the lovebirds and go on ignoring them. _I think I see what Victor means. The dorms in Detroit weren’t quite as welcoming or inclusive as all of this. Well… I didn’t think so. Phichit said it was, but I never much left my room except for class or training._

_I like that Victor has his own apartment now – but I can see why he’d have been happy to stay here for so long, too._

“Why did you leave?” asks Yuuri, eyes still on the group with the lovebirds. “Are you required to go once you’re old enough to live on your own?”

“The dorms are really only for students, and I was done with schooling. But anywhere I could live after the dorms was very far away, and six years of living across the street spoiled me. Besides, I was tired of living with other people. It’s nice when you’re young, but after you’re older and set in your ways?” Victor shook his head. “Once I was making enough from endorsements to afford my own place, I did.”

There’s a burst of laughter from the table. “Oh,” says Yuuri, realizing.

_Strange to think of Victor wanting to live by himself – I’ve always thought of him as being an extrovert._

_Except… everyone in this room was so happy to see him come in this morning. But no one’s come over since we’ve sat down to say hello._

_Is that because I’m here, and they’re giving us space?_

_Or did Victor live alone because he’d reached a point where everyone else thought he was untouchable?_

Victor continues to talk. “Georgi also has an apartment in the city; it’s across the river, a little further away. Daria, Oksana – I can’t remember who else. We should find Daria, Yuuri – you would like her. She was in Juniors with me; she teaches the beginner’s classes now.”

“I get the feeling no one ever leaves here for long,” says Yuuri, too amused to be cynical.

“They bury you under the ice if you’re here long enough,” says Victor cheerfully. “I think Yakov’s already picked his favorite spot.”

Yuuri chuckles. “I still can’t imagine moving away from home so young. Your parents must have missed you a lot.”

“Yes,” says Victor shortly. He pushes back from the table. “We have a free period now. I’m not feeling hungry, but I’m stiff from the flight yesterday. I’m sure you’re not much better. Let’s go find an open ballet studio and stretch out, _da_?”

_That was a sudden switch._

“Sure,” says Yuuri. Despite his earlier hunger, he’s eaten as much of the food as he wants, anyway.

Victor is quiet as they leave the cafeteria. He holds onto Yuuri’s hand, his fingers tight on Yuuri’s skin.

_It’s funny… I can’t remember Victor ever really talking about his family much. Everything I know about his past, I know from what I’ve read about him online or in magazines. I keep forgetting that. Maybe he does too._

_What a terrible fiancé I am – I know his parents died when he was fifteen or sixteen, so it’s not like I was ever going to meet them, but… I could have at least asked him to tell me about them. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure I even saw their pictures in his apartment. I’ll have to look tonight. Maybe in those photographs on his dresser._

The first few studios are busy with private sessions or full-blown classes, but eventually they find an empty room, comfortably warm and dark. Just stepping into it is so familiar that Yuuri expects Minako to walk in after them, complaining about how late they are and how much they have to work on. He blinks back sudden tears of homesickness while Victor kicks off his sneakers and goes up on his toes in a stretch.

“ _Ohhhh_ , that’s better,” sighs Victor. He walks over to the cabinets on the far side of the room. “We should have stopped in the locker rooms for our shoes, but usually – yes, here’s a pair, these should fit you. I’ll go without.”

“You’ll fall,” Yuuri warns him, taking the shoes. They’re flats, instead of his typical jazz shoes, but they’re at least the right size. He sits down and unlaces his sneakers.

“I’m not going to do anything that would result in falling today,” says Victor with a shrug. “You should go through your free skate, though. I want to know what you and Minako did, it was much better in Tokyo than it was in Barcelona.”

“You’re the one who needs to finish your choreography.”

“Of course, that door has a lock on it,” muses Victor. “And there is a fantasy I’ve always had about these rooms….”

“Ballet!” shouts Yuuri, springing to his feet. “I’ll start at the beginning, okay?”

Victor laughs. “Come here, I’ll help you stretch out.”

Feeling Victor’s hands on his waist as he bends over his leg propped up on the barre; hearing Victor’s breath near his ear as he lends Yuuri the extra weight needed to get a really good stretch in – it’s enough to make Yuuri rethink his initial hesitation about Victor’s fantasies.

Hearing voices from the hall as people walk back and forth is enough to keep him from acting them out though. And really, Yuuri enjoys having Victor to help him stretch too much.

_This facility is amazing. I mean – it’s huge and I’m definitely going to get lost at least twice a day if Victor’s not with me but everything we need is here. It’s such a relief to know I’m not going to be wandering around Saint Petersburg just to buy plasters for my feet when they break out in blisters. Or have to find a gym or a yoga studio or anything else._

_And we’re still going to have time to just be with each other. Like now. If we have this every day, I can deal with being surrounded by strangers the rest of the time._

They spend the next half hour stretching out and talking, without ever really getting started on anyone’s choreography.

And stretching out feels _good_ , after the long flight and their morning activities. Yuuri glances at the barre and the mirror, and somewhere in the back of his head, he thinks about Victor’s claim of a ballet-class fantasy. If Yuuri wasn’t already flushed from having his head down by his feet, he might blush from the images running through his head.

“Victor, you keep looking at the clock,” says Yuuri, because if Yuuri’s thoughts keep going in that direction, they might actually _need_ the lock on the door. “Do we have somewhere to be before this afternoon’s skate?”

“Oh,” says Victor, chastised. “Yes, but not for a while. This is a rest period, when we’re meant to be digesting our lunches. In truth it ends up being when everyone does the boring parts of skating. I probably should have taken you to meet some people in the offices – the press liaisons, the skating officials, your assigned psychologist—”

Yuuri sits straight up. “My _what_?”

“Everyone has one,” Victor assures him. “It isn’t because anyone thinks you need one.”

“Yeah, well,” says Yuuri, with a slightly high-pitched laugh. “In my case, I probably do.”

“I thought you’d want to come here, though,” says Victor. “It’s usually quiet after lunch.”

“Good call,” says Yuuri, and it’s easy to say because it’s true. “It reminds me of Minako-sensei’s studio at home.”

“Mmm,” agrees Victor. “I think the ballet instructors here will like you. They will try to steal you, though, so be careful.”

“Steal me?” echoes Yuuri. “You mean back to ballet? I’m not sure Valentina Maratovna will approve of that, after all the trouble I’ve caused just coming here to skate.”

“Oh, not permanently. There’s always special symposiums or training sessions, and everyone is asked to assist from time to time. More in the off-season, of course. Two summers ago, I spent a day teaching ten-year-olds how to do double axels. Teaching _you_ is much easier.”

“Oh, thanks.”

Victor chuckles. “You’re a very good dancer, Yuuri. I would be very surprised if Yulia doesn’t have plans for you.”

“I haven’t really danced in years,” protested Yuuri, flushing anyway. “And anyway, how would she know -- oh, no.” Yuuri’s eyes go wide. “She was at Sochi, wasn’t she? Victor, tell me she wasn’t at Sochi.”

“She wasn’t at Sochi,” Victor assures him.

Yuuri sighs and slumps in relief.

“I think she might have seen video, though,” continues Victor thoughtfully, tapping his chin with his finger.

“ _Ahhhhhhh_ ,” groans Yuuri.

The noise in the hallway starts to get louder as more and more people filter in – clearly the lunch period is coming to an end. “Let’s go to the gym, we have just enough time for a run and some weights before skating, _da_? Now that we’re all stretched out.”

“Sure,” says Yuuri. “As long as I don’t fall asleep first.”

“In which case, there are some very comfortable couches in the athlete’s lounge,” says Victor as he pulls Yuuri to his feet. “Welcome to the FFKKR, Yuuri, where everything you could possibly ever want is under one roof.”

“Except sunlight.”

“That’s why I have you, _solnyshko_ ,” says Victor.

*

Even after a too-short rest in the athlete’s lounge – where the couches are indeed very comfortable – Yuuri’s jet lag is beginning to kick in when they reach the ice that afternoon. His thoughts go in stops and starts, breezing along every possible path before hitting a wall and just stopping dead in the water, completely without warning.

Yuuri glances out the windows on the long side of the rink. They overlook the river with the city beyond, and the sky still shows up orange and rose from where the sun has set perhaps ten minutes before. Yuuri looks longingly at the darkening sky. It’s only four in the afternoon in Saint Petersburg which is ten in the evening in Hasetsu and he might have slept for more than twelve hours the night before but he’s been awake for nearly nine. His head hurts from all the Russian that surrounds him and he’s lost track of how much sleeping and waking time he had before boarding the plane.

_Two hours on the ice left_ , thinks Yuuri bleakly. _How am I going to make it through two hours without falling flat on my face?_

“You’re tired, you should go home,” says Victor, looking at him worriedly as they lace up their skates.

“I’m fine,” says Yuuri. “Just… maybe not the quads today? Or spins. Sorry.”

“That doesn’t leave much left,” says Victor with a smile. “Okay, we’ll ease into it. Back to work for real tomorrow, _da_?”

“ _Hai_ ,” agrees Yuuri, and Victor laughs.

Yuuri gets a glimpse of Victor’s face before he steps out onto the ice – and there’s so much excitement, so much a sense of coming _home_ , that Yuuri can feel a familiar warmth in his chest.

_I might be tired, but I’m glad I’m here to see this._

Yuuri is accosted the minute he steps out onto the ice.

“Now,” says Mila Babicheva, one arm threaded through his, as if they’re on a date. “Tell me about your first day in Saint Petersburg. Did Vitya show you the city? How do you like his apartment?”

Yuuri can barely remember the apartment, and isn’t sure he wants to make a final decision until he sees it in daylight.

_Which might not be until June, anyway_ , he thinks wryly.

“It’s… in Saint Petersburg,” he says.

“I’ll have one that nice someday,” says Mila. “When I have as many golds as he does.”

“You live in the dorms?”

“ _Da_. Me and Yura both.”

“I thought Yurio lived with Yakov?”

“Oh, he still has a room at Lilia’s house – but she and Yakov had a horrific argument after Barcelona and he moved back to his apartment. Then Yura said he’d already been the cause of one destroyed marriage and so he’s in the dorms now, since his cousins couldn’t take him back. Of course, I’m not even sure they were cousins – maybe friends of his mother’s? They were horrible, anyway, Yura’s better off in the dorms with us.”

“Oh.” Yuuri glances over to where Yurio is staunchly taking instruction from Yakov; there’s a fierce, determined look on his face that Yuuri recognizes. Yakov’s expression, though – it’s kind, almost loving, in the way he’s motioning and explaining whatever it is he wants Yurio to do.

“It couldn’t have been his fault, though,” says Yuuri.

“Of course not. But you know Yura. Not even Lilia could convince him to stay. She still has Potya, since pets aren’t allowed. I can’t wait to live away, like Vitya and Georgi. I’d rather have a spaniel, though.”

Yuuri’s eyes immediately seek Georgi out. He’s on the far side of the rink, talking to one of the other coaches as he drinks water from his bottle. Yuuri can’t tell if Georgi has noticed him or Victor – but he thinks, given the way he is studiously not looking at either them, that he probably knows they’re there.

“Georgi doesn’t have a nickname?” asks Yuuri.

Mila scoffs. “He hates all the diminutives for Georgi. So no. I wish he’d let us use one, he’s really such a sweetheart now that he’s not mooning over Anya. Besides, he has this idea that calling him Georgi makes him seem aloof and untouchable and sharp like a knife to the gut.” Mila makes a twisty motion with her hand, as if she’s doing exactly that to someone in front of them. There’s almost a maniacal sort of glee as she does it, and Yuuri shudders at the mental image.

“I don’t think that’s what makes him seem untouchable,” says Yuuri, watching as Georgi takes off from the boards and goes straight into a quad toe loop, triple loop combination, landing it with a stumble but staying on his feet and never touching the ice. Georgi scowls, and then takes off to do it again without a single word.

“He’s just focused,” says Mila softly. “He needs to place well at the Europeans. It’s the only way he might be able to go to Worlds.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, watching as Georgi lands the combination again, this time with less flailing but still with the stumble – and immediately builds up speed for another attempt. “But… I thought he came in second at Nationals.”

“He did,” says Mila. “Russia can only send two skaters to Worlds. And everyone accepts that Vitya is one of them.”

Yuuri watches as Georgi builds up the speed to try the combination again.

_At least I’ve never had to live for weeks while my season hinged on someone else’s skating. Either I made it to the next level – or I crashed so hard there was never even a sliver of hope._

Georgi lands his combination perfectly.

“Tell me who you know,” says Mila, pulling Yuuri out of his thoughts.

“You. Yurio – Yura, I mean. Victor. Georgi. Yakov. I’m not sure who anyone else is.”

“Good, then I can tell you. Sasha is the one shouting at Georgi right now – Alexander Denisovich Pechkin. He is very good with jumps, that’s his specialty. Georgi is in trouble because they had private jump practice this morning, and he’s not meant to be doing any more today.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a coach just for jumps,” says Yuuri, staring at the man. He knows that there’s coaches who specialize in certain aspects of figure skating; he’s just never had the chance to work with any of them before. Victor and Celestino and the coaches he’d had before that were all package deals.

_He’d probably know why I can’t land the flip more consistently_ , thinks Yuuri.

Sasha is near Katsuki Toshiya’s age, but still slender and with the most powerful thighs Yuuri’s ever seen. He’s not shouting, despite Mila’s interpretation, but it’s clear from Georgi’s chastened expression that whatever Sasha has said has hit home.

“There are coaches for _everything_. We’ve also got coaches for spins, coaches for step sequences, coaches for how to talk to the press, coaches for how to talk to fans, coaches for how to react to good scores and bad scores, and when we are little, coaches for how to greet the audience.”

Yuuri laughs. “You’re joking!”

“I’m not!” protests Mila. “Yura still meets with one at least once a week!”

Yuuri laughs again before he hears Yakov shouting. “That’s enough warm up, Mila, Yuuri! Start working!”

“ _Da, trener!_ ” Mila calls back. She releases Yuuri after a last, friendly squeeze of his arm. “I’m so very glad you’re here, Yuuri!” she calls over her shoulder as she skates toward an open patch of ice, where she starts working on her combination spins. 

A moment later, Victor skids to a stop near Yuuri. “Don’t listen to Yakov. I think you should take another lap, make sure you’re loose.”

He has a bright smile on his face, but already there’s a guarded, almost territorial look in his eye. Yuuri glances over at Yakov; Yakov is deep in conversation with Yurio again. Yuuri might not even exist.

“Okay,” says Yuuri. He wonders if the odd feeling in his gut is jet lag or nerves or just the uneasy sensation of someone who’s found themselves playing the part of the rope in a game of tug-of-war. “I feel all right, though, and I won’t try any jumps today—”

“No,” says Victor shortly. “I’m your coach, not Yakov, and I know you better. Take another lap.”

_Ahhh! Stop arguing! It’s just a lap, it’s not worth it!_

“ _Hai_ ,” says Yuuri, and takes another lap.

He can feel Yakov staring at him the entire way. It feels a bit like an ant crawling up the back of his neck.

He’s not even halfway done with the last lap when he sees it – a clean patch of ice, near the end farthest from where Yakov is instructing Yurio, and not too far from where Victor is now talking to Coach Sasha-of-the-enormous-thighs. Yuuri keeps his eyes on it as he finishes the lap, and then continues to circle until he reaches it.

The patch of ice is still untouched. It’s no longer shiny and bright, since the thin layer of water the Zamboni left before practice has now frozen over, but there’s not even a single shaving from passing skaters.

Yuuri can’t help the grin as he slowly glides onto the patch. There’s something about laying down a fresh line in clean ice that Yuuri can’t help but enjoy, and he circles, arms outstretched. The circle is about an inch away from meeting up; Yuuri grimaces before switching edges and trying again.

Instead of a circle, though, he tries something more complicated – a floral pattern that vaguely resembles kanji characters. The lines are better – still not perfect, Yuuri can see at least three places where he needed to cross an inch one way or the other, or where the line were meant to overlap but instead run alongside each other. It’s good enough to give Yuuri the sense of satisfaction he needs to move on from the pointless exercise and work on his step sequence from Eros.

He’s about to start the step sequence a fifth time, because there’s a turn halfway through that always makes him feel like he’s about to lose his balance – even if he never actually does – when he becomes aware of the impossibly tiny woman on skates watching him.

Yuuri comes to a stop, his head still spinning a little because there’s nowhere good to spot anywhere in the rink.

She’s small – even smaller than Yurio, almost as small as the children he saw practicing earlier. There are deep lines around her mouth and her eyes, as if she spends a lot of time frowning and laughing. Her dyed red hair is cut short in the back, and the hair on top has been slathered with something that makes it stick up in spikes that Yuuri _thinks_ are meant to be styled, but really only emphasize how short she is. She wears a coat and a scarf, but there’s no way she’s hiding an ounce of fat under it.

Yuuri has no idea how old she is, other than _old_. There’s something about her beyond the color of her hair – something that gives Yuuri the impression that she’s seen everything under the sun and found it tedious about a thousand years before. When she speaks, her voice is low and gravely, a lifetime of cigarettes and vodka rolling out with each word.

“ _Tak znachit vy Yuuri Katsuki_ ,” she says, drawing out each word slowly, as if she’s savoring every syllable, dripping with scorn. She glides on the ice toward him without moving a single muscle. As she comes closer, she looks over Yuuri from the top of his head to the toes of his skates, taking such care with the inspection that Yuuri wonders if he maybe forgot to get _dressed_ that morning. From the way her lips are pursed, Yuuri’s very sure that she doesn’t see anything worth keeping.

The woman doesn’t say another word – but she doesn’t stop advancing, either. Yuuri can’t help but skate backwards, the closer she advances on him. He can see the smirk in her eyes, and somehow, that just makes her all the scarier. He’s jet-lagged and his head is full of fuzz and all he _really_ wants to do is sleep, and the woman _just – keeps – coming._

_WHY IS THIS SMALL SCARY RUSSIAN WOMAN LOOKING ME?????_

Yuuri startles when his back hits the boards at the edge of the rink, and he grips tight as he bends backwards.

It’s hard to pull his eyes away from her – but Yuuri glances over to Victor a bit frantically. Of all the times for Victor to suddenly become a model student…

_Um… Vitya? Anytime you want to intervene now…._

When Yuuri looks back at the woman, she’s right at the tip of his nose. He barely holds in the yelp.

_VIIIIIIICTOOOOOOOOR!_

The woman stares down at Yuuri – and how a woman who doesn’t even reach his shoulders can stare him down, Yuuri doesn’t know and isn’t going to even pretend to understand.

Then she speaks _again_. This time, much to Yuuri’s surprise, in perfect Japanese.

“Thank God for Russia that figures aren’t required anymore.”

She skates away without looking back.

“Oh my God,” groans Yuuri, standing up. It feels a little like he’s been unable to breathe for the last five minutes. He’s still trying to catch his breath when Yurio skates up and comes to a skidding halt, spraying ice all over Yuuri’s legs.

“What’d she say to you?” he asks, more curious than gruff.

Yuuri’s hand is still on his chest; it takes a moment to translate the woman’s words into English. The woman is still retreating, hands behind her back and seemingly moving without propelling herself. Yuuri has no idea how she’s doing it. “Something about how glad she was that figures aren’t required anymore?”

Yurio stares at him. “Baba Yaga said that. Seriously.”

“Yes? No? I did a couple figures when I came out, I guess she watched me,” says Yuuri, motioning to the patterns on the ice.

Yurio goes to look at them. He stands on the ice, staring at the patterns for a very long time – far longer than any rational person would look at poorly-formed circle and a stupid nonsense pattern in the ice. Yuuri’s about to just give up and go back to his step sequence when Yurio speaks again.

“I guess she likes you.”

“Okay. Is that a good thing?”

“Only if you don’t want her to become your worst nightmare. Her greatest regret in life is that figures aren’t a compulsory part of competitions anymore. They still tell stories about the drunken rage she went in after they were done away with.”

“Huh,” says Yuuri. He skates next to Yurio to look over at the patch of ice he’d worked on. “Does she still teach figures?”

Yurio rolls his eyes. “Of course she does, moron. She’ll probably drop dead teaching them, and her corpse will still show up the next day to yell at whoever’s screwing up a figure eight. It’s just that she’s not important anymore. If it were up to her, all we’d ever do in competition is figures and step sequences and screw the whole jumping business. The fact that she said what she said to you?” Yurio shakes his head. “I think it’s a compliment.”

“I guess I’ll take what I can get,” says Yuuri, a bit dubiously.

“She didn’t shout at you for twenty minutes, Katsudon. That’s better than any of us.”

“Yura!” Yakov shouts.

“ _Ugh_ , ten more minutes and then I can ignore him,” grumbles Yurio as he pushes off from the boards.

“But there’s still an hour and a half left of practice, isn’t there?”

“Ice time, yeah. But Yakov’s _mine_ for only twenty minutes of it,” says Yurio. “We all have our turn. Welcome to Ice Castle Saint Petersburg, the only place in all of Russia that actually operates on time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I apologize for the recent sporadic updates. RL has been hectic, between school letting out and an upcoming summer relocation. The reason this chapter is going up Monday night instead of my preferred Wednesday night is because I’ll be traveling, but I’m greatly looking forward to your comments once I’m over the jet lag! (Or not over the jet lag. If my responses are a bit loopy, that would be the reason why.)
> 
> SKA Saint Petersburg is a professional hockey team. They use the real-life Yubileynyy for practice.
> 
> [Red Pepper Paprikash](http://www.cooks.com/recipe/p96xr15y/red-peppers-paprikash-russian-lecho-passover.html) is technically not a Russian dish; it’s Hungarian. The canned version was apparently super popular in the Soviet era. It’s also delicious and very easy to make. 
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Privet! My prishly! (Russian) - Hi, we’re here!  
> POSTAV’ MENYA, BABA! (Russian) - PUT ME DOWN, YOU HAG!  
> Postav’ Yuru na zemlyu! (Russian) - Put Yura down!  
> Ty zdes', kak zamechatel'no! Ya zhdala tebya vse utro. (Russian) - You’re here, how wonderful, I’ve been waiting for you all morning.  
> Zdravstvuyte, Anna Anatoliyevna! Segodnya ty vyglyadish' prekrasno. Chto novyy fartuk? (Russian) – Hello, Anna Anatoliyevna! You look lovely today. Is that a new apron?  
> Da, trener! (Russian) – Yes, Coach!  
> Tak znachit vy Yuuri Katsuki. (Russian) - So you are Yuuri Katsuki.


	10. Day's End

It’s just after six when Yakov calls out. “ _Eto vse, po domam_!” 

Yuuri has long since shaken off his lethargy. He’s running on pure adrenaline as he moves through forms: arabesques, Ina Bauers, spread eagles, whatever pops into his head without reference to anything he actually needs to work on. Afternoon practice has largely gone on without him, voices mingling as they echo across the ice. Yuuri can’t understand the Russian, but it sinks into his skin, an ever-present reminder that he’s no longer in Hasetsu or even Detroit. None of it is directed toward him, so it’s easy to ignore and just remain in his own fuzzed-up, jet-lagged head.

Yakov’s shout has an authoritativeness, however, that makes Yuuri stop and stare, just a bit dazed.

_We expect great things from you, Katsuki Yuuri._

Valentina had been just as expectant as Yakov. But Yuuri thinks Valentina is going to be a lot less forgiving of failure than Yakov.

Whatever Yakov’s requested, it’s clear that the other skaters consider their work done for the day. Their voices pick up in volume as they join together, laughing and talking amongst themselves. There’s smiles and water bottles and Yuuri thinks he’ll continue to go unnoticed in his corner of the rink as they go through their own well-worn motions. Even Victor seems to have fallen into what must be an age-old routine of talking to Yakov, hands moving through the air as they discuss some element of his program.

Well. All except _one_ of the skaters.

“Didn’t you hear, Katsudon?” says Yurio, gliding by him. “Show’s over. Go home.”

“Right,” says Yuuri, too tired even for relief.

He skates slowly over to where Victor is still talking to Yakov. It’s almost automatic – and anyway, he has to pass them to get to the exit. There’s something about the way they’re talking – or maybe the way they’re standing – or maybe it’s the determination and concentration on Victor’s face.

Yuuri knows what Victor’s going to say before he even is close enough to hear him say it.

“Feeling all right?” Victor asks him as Yuuri skates up to him.

“Yeah,” says Yuuri. “You’re going to stay, aren’t you?”

Victor at least looks a little guilty. “Yakov said he’d be willing to stay another hour or two. I’m sorry, I know it’s our first night here—”

“That was last night.”

“That doesn’t count, we were too jet-lagged. And I wanted to take you to dinner—”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri reassures him. “You should stay. The whole reason we came to Saint Petersburg is because you need Yakov. I mean”—Yuuri stammers, as Victor’s eyes widen—“not that you’re not doing very well, you’re fantastic on the ice, you’re _always_ fantastic, just that you’re a little bit _rusty_ – no, wait, that’s not what I mean—”

“By all means, Katsudon, keep going,” calls Yurio from where he’s sitting nearby on the benches as he takes off his skates. “This is the best entertainment I’ve had all day.”

“Yuuri,” Yakov interrupts them, “what is Anastasia going to tell me about you?”

“Who?” asks Yuuri.

“Anastasia. She spoke to you at the beginning of the skate.”

“Oh, you mean Baba Yaga,” says Yuuri.

The entire rink goes quiet.

“Ohlookatthetime I’mverylatefordinnergoodbye,” says Yurio in a rush, right before Yakov shoots one arm out, grabs him by his hoodie, and yanks him back.

“ARGH!”

“ _YURA, SKOL’KO RAZ YA GOVORIL TEBE NE NAZYVAT’_ —”

The shouting continues while Mila howls with laughter behind them. Victor sidles up next to Yuuri.

“Her name is Anastasia Petrovna Tolmacheva,” he says to Yuuri, still watching Yakov shout at Yurio. “No one actually calls her Baba Yaga to her face. Rumor has it she’s been training figure skaters since the sport was included in the Olympics. Even the fall of the Soviet Union couldn’t shake her from this place.”

Yakov finally releases Yurio, who’s gone before his feet even hit the floor.

“She is very, very good at what she does,” says Yakov, turning back to them. “And she is younger than I am, Vitya.”

“You’ve never actually proven that, Yakov.”

Yakov’s glare turns back to Yuuri. He’s clearly still waiting for an answer to his original question.

Yuuri swallows. “She said she was glad figures weren’t compulsory anymore. For Russia’s sake, I mean.”

Yakov and Victor stare at him.

Yuuri falters. They just keep _looking_ at him. “Um. Yurio said that’s good?”

Yakov shakes it off first. “I’ll go find the music, Vitya.” He leaves, muttering under his breath.

“Okay,” says Victor, still in shock. “Wow. I know you do figures for _fun_ , and your step sequences are the best I’ve ever seen, but… wow. Okay.” He shakes his head, and the smile starts forming on his face. “Wow. I have a lot of work to do, if I’m going to catch up with you.”

“Which is why you’re staying,” says Yuuri softly.

Victor doesn’t look at him – but at least he’s not looking at the ice, either. “Yes.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

Victor picks up Yuuri’s hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the backs of his fingers. “No. You’re exhausted, Yuuri. You need to eat and sleep. Go home.”

 _Home_.

There’s a tug on Yuuri’s heart at that word, because he can’t help but think of Yu-topia Katsuki. His parents sitting down for dinner, the steaming bowls of rice, the warmth and comfort and softness of the cushions under his knees.

By now, everyone at home would be asleep. The kitchen and main dining rooms would be cold and dark, and if Yuuri did appear out of thin air, there’d be no one to greet him.

“No,” says Yuuri, because the idea of returning to the empty apartment hurts almost as much as remembering. “And anyway, I can nap tomorrow afternoon if I need to.”

“Oh,” says Victor, looking a bit embarrassed. “No. You can’t. I meant to tell you earlier. There’s an annual telecast for New Year’s, and I’ve always participated. But Yakov has invited us to his party, and I said we’d only do a pre-recorded segment. They agreed, but it needs to be recorded tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh. Of course you’d have commitments like that, I guess I should have expected it,” says Yuuri, confused, even if he’s not sure _how_ he should have known that. “I mean – you’re Victor Nikiforov, sure they’d want you. But I can nap while you’re doing that, I’m sure no one will bother me.”

“No, Yuuri,” says Victor patiently. “You’re recording _with_ me. They want both of us.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, faintly.

“I’m sorry. I tried to get us out of it.”

“No, it’s okay,” says Yuuri, and he takes a breath. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be fun?”

Victor skates a little closer to him, lifts his chin, and kisses him lightly. Yuuri’s eyes close and he leans forward, the exhaustion creeping back into his body. “Please go home and sleep. I won’t be long. They always kick us out by eight. I’d like to think of you at home, while I’m here. Makkachin probably thinks we’ve abandoned her.”

Yuuri lets out a strangled laugh. “You’re using your dog as emotional blackmail.”

“It works, though.”

“It does,” confirms Yuuri. He keeps his face turned up as Victor continues to feather light kisses on his face. Seduction, pure and simple, even if it’s seduction with the aim of sending Yuuri away. “Okay. Please be careful. You’re tired, too, and I _know_ you had less sleep than I did last night.”

“But you worked harder this morning,” Victor whispers in his ear, and Yuuri’s face goes hot. His eyes spring open, suddenly remembering that they’re not alone in the rink.

“ _Vitya_!”

Victor chuckles and kisses him again. This time, they’re interrupted by an extremely pointed cough from Yakov.

“I won’t be long,” Victor promises him. “Pavel will take you home.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri. “Oh – I need keys.”

“In my locker. The combination is Makkachin’s birthday.”

Yuuri chuckles. “Lucky for you I’m such a good fan of yours.”

“Very lucky,” agrees Victor, stealing one last kiss on the lips before he pushes away with a pained, longing look.

“Oh, go skate,” says Yuuri, blushing to his ears. Victor grins and turns to skate away, already focused and steady, excited to get started again.

 _He looks just like posters I tore down in my room,_ thinks Yuuri.

Mila is still sitting on the benches, her knees tucked under her chin. Yuuri’s not sure if she’s waiting for him or something else, but she’s right next to where he left his shoes, so he thinks that’s a pretty big clue.

She doesn’t look at him when he sits down, though. Instead, she watches Victor on the ice, where he’s already building up speed to work on a jump.

“He works harder than anyone else I’ve ever known,” says Mila, almost absently. “He was famous even before I was a novice, and when Yakov became my coach?” Mila shakes her head. “I thought every dream I’d ever had as a little girl had come true, because then I would skate on the same ice as Victor Nikiforov every day. And he was only just becoming Victor Nikiforov then.”

“How old were you?” asks Yuuri, but Mila doesn’t answer, because Victor jumps.

Yuuri’s heart is in his throat.

A triple axel. He touches the ice, but he lands it. Yakov shouts something at him in Russian, and Victor nods sharply, hands on his hips as he takes in the advice, before he sets off to try again.

Mila picks up as if she’d never left off. “I was eleven. He had just won his second silver at Worlds. He was so kind. He would pick me up and skate around the rink with me on his shoulders.” She laughs. “I would daydream that maybe he would retire from men’s singles, and we could be pairs skaters. Isn’t that silly?”

“He still could. You can skate pairs a lot longer than you can skate singles.”

Mila smiles as she nudges him. “I think he’s found another partner.”

On the ice, Victor jumps again. Another triple axel. This time, it’s perfect.

“ _Khorosho_!” calls Yakov, which Yuuri’s heard enough to know that it means “Good!”

Victor, however, shakes his head in disagreement. With a steely determination, he takes off to try again.

“Come on,” says Mila, kindly. “Do you want to eat here before you go home?”

 _Home_. Yuuri can almost smell the fish and pork that his mother would have served at dinner. The scent from the onsen, salt and sulfur and perfume.

Eating with Mila – that’d be good. Yuuri can already tell she’s going to be a good friend. And even knowing Makkachin is waiting for him, Yuuri doesn’t really want to go back to Victor’s apartment alone.

_I don’t want to go back to Hasetsu alone, either._

On the ice, Victor jumps the triple axel for the third time. It’s over-rotated, but he still lands it.

_He’ll do it a dozen more times before he stops. They want perfection from him. He won’t stop until he can give it to them._

_They want the same thing from me, too. I’ve got one chance to prove to Valentina that I deserve to be here. Victor’s opinion of me might have gotten me in – but I don’t think it’s strong enough to keep me if she wants me gone._

_I wonder… if I beat Victor at World’s… will that prove to her that I deserve to stay? Or will my stealing his sixth world championship prove that it was a mistake to let me in?_

The idea is exhausting, and Yuuri’s already so tired he thinks he could fall asleep right where he sits.

“Thank you, but… I think I just want to sleep,” says Yuuri.

“Another night,” says Mila, and rises to go.

Yuuri thinks he knows how it will go. Victor will stay and work for another hour or two. He’ll grab every last minute of ice time available to him, trying to regain the skills he’s lost.

Yuuri isn’t going to begrudge him that – especially since it was Yuuri who took Victor away from the ice in the first place.

Mila’s still standing nearby, watching Victor with contented awe on her face.

“Yeah,” says Yuuri. She turns to him, her smile brightening with pleasure. “Dinner. Another night. I’d like that.”

*

Yuuri sways on the top steps outside the complex.

The “palace”.

The… whatever people call it. He’s not entirely sure. He knows it’s cold outside; the cold is probably the only thing keeping him awake. For some reason, Yuuri thought Pavel would be waiting for him exactly where they’d been dropped off that morning, but morning was a long time ago and now Yuuri’s not even sure if he’s at the same entrance. It’s dark again, there aren’t very many lights, and no cars to be seen.

He looks up at the sky. It’s too overcast for stars, and anyway, the lights from the city are too bright. For a second, he feels a little bit like Cinderella, running from the ball. Maybe if he leaves one skate on the steps, Victor will go knocking on door after door, trying to find him.

No, that’s silly. Yuuri’s skates are in his locker.

 _I have a locker here,_ thinks Yuuri, trying to suppress the sudden, nervous giggle. _They put my name on it sometime this afternoon, even if it’s in Cyrillic and Yurio had to read it for me. I have a locker in the men’s locker room in the official Russian skating complex in Saint Petersburg, Russia, and I’m living with Victor Nikiforov who is also my coach and my fiancé and I’m going back to his apartment where I’m going to feed his dog and probably take her for a walk before I go to sleep in his bed._

_If anyone had told me a year ago when Phichit and I were living on ramen noodles and trying to convince the building manager that the heat wasn’t working and I was neck deep in twenty-page papers for four different professors, that this is where I’d be now, I’d have laughed until I cried._

There’s a car coming down the path; Yuuri hears the wheels crunch on the gravel long before he sees it approach the entrance. He stares as the car comes around to a stop at the base of the stairs.

Maybe it’s Pavel. Maybe it’s the ghost of Soviet skaters past, come to whisk him away to a frozen fairyland. Maybe Yuuri is too tired to care; he goes down and opens the car door.

“Victor Andreyevich?” asks Pavel, when Yuuri climbs into the backseat.

“ _Īe_ ,” says Yuuri, and when Pavel doesn’t respond, he translates. “No. _Nyet_. Um. Later?”

“ _Da, da_ , _da_ ,” says Pavel, comfortingly, as if he’d almost expected it.

Yuuri dozes as much as the moving car and passing lights allow. It’s too much like being on the plane somewhere over Asia. When Pavel pulls the car up to the apartment building, Yuuri is so out of it, he’s not even sure what country he’s in anymore.

The doorman, the same man as last night, reminds him.

“Katsuki Yuriy, _dobriy vecher_!” shouts the doorman, before launching into a brief, rapid-fire conversation in Russian with Pavel. Yuuri wants to leave him to it and head inside. The door to the building glows yellow through the glass in a most inviting manner, and even if Yuuri’s not altogether sure he remembers which floor Victor’s on, he thinks he’ll remember when he sees it. The only trouble is that somewhere in the back of his head, Yuuri’s not entirely sure whether or not he should pay Pavel, or at least sign a receipt for the ride.

He’s almost decided that if Pavel needed something from him, he’d ask – or at least tell Victor in the morning – when the doorman gives Pavel a final handshake, shuts the car doors, and bangs on the roof twice before the car pulls away.

Which solves the problem of Pavel in the short term, at least. Yuuri turns to the door – and somehow finds the doorman standing in his path.

“Father name?” the doorman demands, enunciating the words very clearly and carefully.

Yuuri blinks at him. “Um. Katsuki Toshiya?”

“Ah!” The doorman thinks for a moment before breaking into a bright smile. “Yuriy Toshievich! Very nice! I call you this, _da_?”

“Um. Okay?” says Yuuri, completely befuddled. There’s something different about the way the doorman says his name – it’s closer to the way Victor says Yurio’s name than it is the way Victor pronounces Yuuri’s, and even then, it’s not _quite_ the same. It only makes Yuuri feel worse that he can’t remember the man’s name, even though he’s sure they were introduced the night before.

The doorman continues in Russian, exactly as if Yuuri can understand him. The only words Yuuri picks up are _Victor_ , _home_ , and his newly bestowed Russian patronymic. The doorman steers Yuuri inside the blissfully warm lobby and to the elevator.

“Thank you,” says Yuuri blearily, reaching for the call button – but the doorman gets there first, and when the doors open, he gently pushes Yuuri inside, where he pushes the button for Victor’s floor and pats Yuuri on the shoulder before the doors close and the elevator begins to move.

Yuuri thinks he can hear the doorman still talking as the elevator goes up.

Makkachin is barking happily even before Yuuri finishes unlocking the doors, dancing from foot to foot.

“Hey, girl,” says Yuuri, speaking in Japanese without even thinking about it. It feels as good in his mouth as slipping into the onsen would be for his entire body. Just the thought of the hot springs is enough to spark muscle memory, and Yuuri slips down to his knees to scratch Makkachin behind the ears. She gives him a happy kiss, and then looks over his shoulder, clearly hoping for Victor. “Sorry, Makkachin. He’s still skating. He’ll be home soon, he promised.”

Makkachin whines a little in the back of her throat, wriggling a little bit. She’s soft and warm and Yuuri breathes in the scent of her, familiar and comforting. Even if she smells like an apartment in Saint Petersburg and not the sulfur and salt of his parents’ onsen.

“Do you miss the onsen, too, Makka?” Yuuri asks. Makkachin wriggles again, as if hearing the Japanese is as much a comfort for her as speaking it is for Yuuri. “Probably much quieter here, without everyone coming and going. Healthier, too, without Mom to sneak you bites of pork buns.”

 _I should take her out_ , muses Yuuri _. I know the girl – Irina? – she took Makkachin earlier, but I don’t know when, and Makkachin will probably need to go again._

The leash is on a hook by the door, and Makkachin seems extremely happy and relieved to follow Yuuri back to the elevator and then downstairs.

The doorman tsks again, takes Makkachin’s lead, steers Yuuri back to the elevator, pushes the correct button, and is already walking Makkachin outside when the elevator doors close.

“Okay,” says Yuuri. He’s pretty sure that dog walking isn’t in the doorman’s job description - let alone steering exhausted athletes to their apartments - but he’s too exhausted to question it.

Back in the apartment, Yuuri goes through the motions of heating up something to eat, because otherwise he’s sure he’ll wake up at midnight starving. There’s still leftover chicken and plov from the night before, as well as a potato salad and cucumbers spotted with dill and onion. By the time Yuuri’s finished making a plate for himself, there’s a knock on the door.

“Hi, Yuuri!” says Irina brightly. It’s clear she’s come from outside, given the pink in her cheeks and the way she’s loosened her coat and scarf. There’s a cloth shopping bag over her arm, but she keeps a tight grip on Makkachin’s leash. “Dmitiri Ivanovich asked me to bring Makka up for him.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri. “I couldn’t remember his name.”

“I won’t tell,” promises Irina cheerfully, slipping by him into the apartment. Makka sits obediently next to the basket with the cloths, tail wagging. Irina drops to her knees and efficiently begins to clean her charge’s paws. “Is Victor home? He takes Makkachin out when he comes home. I would do it but he says it’s the only time he has with her during the season. I’d rather have a chance to avoid geometry. Did you take geometry in English or Japanese?”

“Uh… Japanese.” He _thinks_. Right now he can’t quite remember when he even _took_ geometry, let alone the language.

“I could learn Japanese,” says Irina. “Is it easier to learn than English?”

Yuuri sits down on the floor next to them. “I have no idea. I hear it’s harder, but I learned it when I was a baby.”

“That would help,” agrees Irina. Makkachin flops on her back while Irina works on her back paws, carefully working in between the pads. It’s more of a foot massage than it is a clean. Yuuri’s almost envious.

“I have to learn Russian,” he confides.

“It’s not hard,” Irina assures him. “I learned it as a baby.”

“Ha ha,” says Yuuri, and Irina laughs.

“All done,” says Irina, pleased. She pats Makkachin’s belly for a rub before hopping up to her feet. “ _Khoroshego vechera,_ Yuuri!” 

“Good night, Irina,” says Yuuri as Irina lets herself out.

Makkachin makes a beeline for her water bowl, but by the time Yuuri sits back down at his dinner, she’s happily sitting at his feet. He feeds her bits of his chicken and eats every grain of rice. It’s enough to wake him up a little bit.

Enough to start thinking about Valentina’s threat again.

If it even _was_ a threat. In the clean, crisp lines of Victor’s apartment, he’s starting to doubt what it was he heard.

“If I win at Worlds and beat Victor,” Yuuri tells Makkachin, who just wags her tail and waits for more chicken, “I’ll meet the terms that Victor set for my coaching fees, but lose my visa and have to go home. If I lose at Worlds, to Victor or anyone else, I’ll disappoint Victor but I’ll be able to stay.”

Even spoken aloud, the options don’t sound terribly good. Yuuri sighs and rubs his head.

“At least I know you and Victor are glad to be home, huh, girl?” Yuuri feeds Makkachin the last bite of chicken. “He was so happy on the ice today. He belongs here.

_This was the right decision. Even if it’s going to destroy us._

_No,_ thinks Yuuri, shaking his head. _I can’t think like that. Whatever happens at Worlds, happens at Worlds. I have to do my best – for Victor. Not anyone else._

“I’m sorry Victor wasn’t here to take you out,” Yuuri tells Makkachin. “I’ll take you on your walk tomorrow night, if he’s late again. I wonder how late he stayed before? I wouldn’t be surprised if he did most nights. I don’t know why I thought he’d change his routine now that I’m…” He shakes his head. “Anyway. He needs it right now. It’s not for always. It’ll be better, once he has his quads back, right? Yeah.”

His phone rings – Victor.

“Are you home?” demands Victor.

“Yes.”

“Good, get on your computer on Skype,” says Victor, and then hangs up.

“Okay,” says Yuuri, curious why Victor specified his laptop.

Makkachin follows Yuuri closely, and once Yuuri sits, rests her head on Yuuri’s lap. No sooner has Yuuri logged in and connected to the wifi but there’s an incoming message notification. When Yuuri connects, the first thing he sees is the tips of Victor’s skates on the ice.

“Vitya?” Yuuri calls. “Why do I have to be on my laptop?”

“Hello, Yuuri, I have something to show you!” Victor calls, but Yuuri still can’t see him. “And you’ll want the larger screen. _Syuda, Yakov, tak ty navodish’ focus_ –” 

Yuuri has a confused moment before he realizes that Victor’s switched to Russian. He’s so tired, he doesn’t realize that Victor’s not even speaking to him until Yakov responds.

“ _Ya znayu, kak rabotayet telefon, Vitya, ya ne takoy staryy_.” 

“ _Ladno, prosto fokusiruisya na mne_!”

“ _Ty deistvitel’no dumaesh’, chto ya nikogda ne delal etogo ran’she_?!?”

 _Do I need to be here for this?_ thinks Yuuri, so exhausted he might have even said it aloud, since the phone gets even shakier and there’s nothing but the sound of a gloved finger running over the microphone.

“Victor?” asks Yuuri.

The camera shifts so quickly that Yuuri thinks it’ll make him sick – and then all he can see is Victor’s back as he skates out to the ice. “Watch me, Yuuri!” he calls over his shoulder, and Makkachin lets out a bark. “You too, Makkachin!”

Makkachin lets out a bark - but Yuuri can’t say a word. His heart is pounding too hard, and if he wasn’t so tired, he’s sure he’d be able to guess what Victor’s about to do.

Yuuri can’t breathe as Victor picks up speed...

It’s a quad Lutz.

And he _lands_ it.

Yuuri breaks into a grin and shouts. “Vitya!”

Victor is still out on the ice, but even as a thin sliver of pixels, Yuuri knows how flushed and happy and clearly proud of himself he is. “Yuuri, did you see?”

“I saw,” laughs Yuuri.

“ _Yakov, ty snyal eto_?” Victor shouts across the ice.

“ _Da da da. Ya ne idiot, i Yuuri skazal, chto on vsyo videl_.” 

Victor skids to a stop and things get a bit fuzzy as he takes the phone from Yakov, and then skates out a bit for privacy. “You saw it? I couldn’t hear you on the ice.”

“It was beautiful,” Yuuri assures him.

Victor’s grin is sloppy and exhausted and proud and perfect. “I haven’t been this proud to land a quad since I first landed one.”

“Your jumps were higher then!” shouts Yakov.

“My voice was higher, too,” says Victor.

Yuuri laughs again. “I’m glad you called to let me see it.”

Victor’s face goes a bit soft. “I wish you were here to see it in person.”

Yuuri smiles wryly. “Me too. But honestly, I’m probably going to pass out as soon as we hang up.”

“And Yakov will want me to repeat that quad twenty more times,” says Victor.

“Don’t tempt me!” growls Yakov, but immediately switches back to a stream of Russian that’s far too fast for Yuuri to even parse into words. However, his meaning is crystal clear, given the gruff annoyance that comes through no matter the language spoken.

“ _Minutu nazad ty skazal, chto ty ne nastol’ko stariy_!” Victor shouts at him. “Yuuri, do you hear him? He doesn’t even know how old he is.” 

_Did Victor forget I can’t speak Russian?_ wonders Yuuri. _Or is he so tired he didn’t realize it was in another language?_

Before Yuuri can decide, Victor continues. “Did you take Makkachin out?”

“I tried, and then the doorman sent me back upstairs and took Makkachin out for me.”

Victor chuckled. “All right. I’ll take her out when I get home, too.”

Yakov shouts something else, this time in Russian, and Victor sighs.

“I know,” says Yuuri. “Back to work.”

“ _Da_ ,” says Victor, almost pained. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have come home with you.”

“I wish I had stayed to see your quad.”

“Later, when you’re awake. I won’t even make you wait long. I have my toe loop and my Lutz now, the rest will fall into place before the week’s out. Go to sleep, _solnyshko_. _Ya lyublyu tebya_.”

Yuuri smiles. “I love you, too. Goodnight.”

The screen goes black as the call ends, and Yuuri chuckles to himself, breathing a sigh of relief. “Two down, Makkachin. Two to go.”

Then he notices the waiting message.

“Look, Makkachin, Mom and Dad left a video message,” says Yuuri, perking up. “Watch with me?”

He presses play. When the message comes up, he sees Hiroko and Toshiya sitting side by side in Mari’s room.

“I don’t see him,” says Hiroko, peering at the screen.

“You’re not going to, Mom, he’s not there. We’re leaving a message,” explains Mari off-screen. Yuuri begins to laugh.

“Ohhh, I wanted to see him,” says Hiroko, disappointed.

“He’s very busy learning to skate,” says Toshiya, patting Hiroko’s arm.

“I think he already knows how to skate, Dad,” says Mari, with the air of someone who thinks they have the patience of a saint. “Should we start the recording again or—”

“Oh, we’re recording? Why didn’t you say?” scolds Hiroko. “Hello, Yuuri-kun and Vic-chan! This is your mother and your father! Can he see me? Can I wave?’’

“Yes, you can wave,” says Mari. She’s sitting on her bed behind them now, making faces and pretending to smother herself with a pillow. Yuuri can’t stop laughing.

“Hello, Makkachin!” continues Hiroko. Makkachin lets out a happy bark, shifting on her haunches.

“Of course Mom isn’t going to forget you,” Yuuri reassures the dog.

“We received your email, thank you for letting us know you’re arrived,” Toshiya says. “And that Victor’s apartment is very nice. I want to know how big the building is. If there is a message board downstairs, you could put signs for the onsen.”

“Dad, they’re in _Saint Petersburg_. That’s a little far away for advertisement.”

“There is no such thing as too far away. We had American guests all the time when Yuuri was in Detroit.”

“Dad, it’s not like they came because Yuuri was _there_.”

“Are you eating well?” worries Hiroko. “I can send rice.”

“We have rice, Mom, I had for rice for dinner,” says Yuuri, just as Mari is saying, “They have rice in Russia, Mom.”

“Okay,” says Hiroko, satisfied. “If you say so. Let me know if you want me to send something you can’t find, Yuuri-kun.”

“Okay, Mom,” says Yuuri warmly.

“And if there’s a place to put some business cards,” adds Toshiya.

Yuuri laughs. “Okay, Dad,” he says, as Mari wails in the background. “ _Daaaaad_.”

“Okay, Yuuri-kun – I’m sure this is a very expensive call—”

“It’s Skype, Mom, it’s free,” says Yuuri, laughing as he sees Mari pull at her hair.

“—but we wanted to talk to you, and tell you how much we miss you—”

“Everyone who comes into the onsen asks after you and Victor,” says Toshiya. Yuuri smiles, the laughter fading, and his fingers grip tight into Makkachin’s fur.

Hiroko leans closer to the camera, smiling as she blinks over wet eyes. “And I’m so very proud of both of you, and I know you are both going to be so happy in Russia, because you have each other, and that is all either of you need.”

Yuuri’s smile doesn’t slip – but it begins to shake just a bit.

“Not us anymore,” says Toshiya heartily.

“Not true, Dad,” whispers Yuuri.

“Victor, you keep warm, it’s cold there.”

“I think he knows that, Dad.”

“You keep Yuuri warm, too!” adds Hiroko.

“ _Mom_!” Yuuri and Mari exclaim at the same time. He suspects they’re equally scandalized.

“We love you,” calls Hiroko, and Toshiya and Mari chime in.

Their images freeze for a moment… and then the recording ends.

The apartment is silent.

Each movement Yuuri makes is deliberate, as he reaches over and closes out of the application, and then slowly closes his laptop. He sits in the darkened room for a few moments, staring blankly at the lights of Saint Petersburg twinkling on the other side of the cold glass window, before folding over and burying his face in Makkachin’s fur.

For a very long time, the only motion in the apartment is Yuuri’s shoulders heaving, his arms wrapped around Makkachin in a desperately lonesome embrace. Every so often, there’s the sound of a soft sob, a cry being choked back. Makkachin’s tail thumps against the chair, but otherwise it’s peaceful and quiet.

When Yuuri finally sits up again, his glasses askew, his eyes red, his face blotchy, there’s a damp spot on Makkachin’s shoulder. She doesn’t seem to mind, wriggling against Yuuri, straining to lick the rest of the tears from his face.

“Okay, I’m okay now,” Yuuri says, breathing deep, feeling his lungs expand with every breath. He pets Makkachin’s head, trying to smile at her, and quickly gives it up as a bad job. “Just… a little more homesickness than I anticipated. It’s okay. I forgot what it felt like to miss them, that’s all. I’m all right now.”

Makkachin whines softly and gives Yuuri’s face another lick.

_Yeah, Makkachin. I don’t believe me, either._

“Come on,” says Yuuri. “Let’s go to bed.”

*

Victor’s body hums. He can feel the blood rushing through him, and it’s electric. Every jump is higher than the last, every rotation covers more ground. Every landing is more solid and sure, and when he moves to begin again, he can feel on the very tips of his fingers what would come next in the choreography.

He thinks he can hear his body sing, if he listens hard enough. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing, or a bad thing, or maybe just his imagination fueled by jet lag and having pushed himself on six hours of sleep to land the quad Lutz until Yakov says he’s done.

He’s still not sure how he feels about that. On one hand, he’s landed his second quad. Two down, two to go.

On the other… it’s strange to be taking direction from someone else. Victor hasn’t been subject to anyone’s whims but his own since April. He remembers taking direction and advice, and then applying it to his skating. He even remembers a time in which he appreciated hearing it. Now, when Yakov talks to him, there’s a part of Victor that is paying attention not to the meaning, but the words themselves, the way Yakov is giving him instruction.

_Would this work for Yuuri? How would I say it differently to him?_

If there’s anything that rankles about landing the quad, it’s that Yuuri wasn’t there to see him do it. Victor knows it’s hypocritical of him. For the last two weeks, he didn’t want Yuuri to watch as he stumbled and fell and tripped over his own feet on the ice. Not when it was his abilities that first caught Yuuri’s attention, years before they even met.

He still would have liked Yuuri to be there. The Skype call was second best.

“I know you’re dancing to Sokolov’s tune tomorrow afternoon,” says Yakov as Victor removes his skates.

“Yes. But I don’t have to film anything live, so Yuuri and I can still come to the party.”

Yakov grunts. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I’m sure I’d rather be at your party,” retorts Victor. “And I’m sure none of the people watching care one way or the other.”

“Hmm. We’ll work on the quad Salchow tomorrow night.”

“No,” says Victor suddenly. “I want Yuuri here when I land it.”

Yakov looks annoyed. “You can’t schedule your progress around him, Vitya. Not when they’re going to want to see you land all of them in two weeks.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Victor. “I’ll land them. Two weeks is more than enough time.”

“Hmph.” Yakov crosses his arms. “Confident talk from someone who fell on his ass fifty times this afternoon.”

“I’ll fall on it fifty times more,” says Victor, unconcerned. “As long as Yuuri’s there when I land it on the fifty-first try.”

“You need the extra practices in the evening, Victor.”

“Fine,” says Victor. “But I won’t work on the jumps. Spins, step sequences, choreography. No jumps. I have nearly four weeks until Europeans. That’s plenty of time to get my quads back.”

Yakov stares at him. “Euro- _Europeans_! Are you an _idiot_ , or just a fool?”

“A fool in love,” says Victor in the best Georgi impression he can manage. He knows his grin is ridiculous, and he doesn’t even care because Yakov lets out an aggravated grumble and walks toward the door. “Yakov!”

“No, Victor Andreyevich!” Yakov stops at the door. His voice booms and echoes in the empty rink. Worse is the way Victor’s patronymic sounds, bouncing against the rafters; Victor can’t remember the last time he heard Yakov use it, a sure sign that Victor’s been more annoying than usual. “This is not the time for your drama. I told you _two weeks ago_ that you’d be on trial if you came back, and here you are, still treating your training as a _joke_. Two weeks from now, officials from the FFKKR are going to sit here in this rink, and they are going to watch you perform your short program and whatever part of your free skate that you have developed. They are going to put you through your paces, like a horse they’re looking to buy, and if you do not perform to their expectations – and as it is _you_ , their expectations are going to be very high – then you will not go to Worlds. That is the only thing you should be worried about right now.”

Victor takes a breath to steady himself. “I am worried about it, Yakov.” His voice no longer has the light-hearted cheer of before. “I know what they want from me. I know what’s at stake.”

“If you want to be at Worlds with your boyfriend—”

“Fiancé.”

“Fine, whatever,” says Yakov. “I’m not playing games, Victor Andreyevich. You need to think about whether or not this is the time to continue playing games, too.”

“It’s not a game.”

“Then stop treating it like one,” barks Yakov. “Do you really think they are not already watching you? Did you notice who was here during our afternoon skate? Or more important, who was _not_ here? Because skating here, under the noses of the very people who would like to knock you off your pedestal, is very different from skating in a rink on the other side of the world. What do you think the FFKKR would say if they knew you can’t land your signature quad without falling? I cannot keep them out of the afternoon skate for long, Victor. But now – I can offer you this time, to regain what you have thrown away without their spies watching your every move.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, before Victor takes a deep breath.

“Fine,” says Victor shortly.

Yakov nods, satisfied. “Go home. Quad Salchow tomorrow.” He pauses at the door. “Yuuri didn’t jump this afternoon.”

“Jet lag,” says Victor briefly.

“You jumped.”

“I’m a nicer coach than you,” retorts Victor.

“Hmph. The only thing you have taught him how to do is to win. He doesn’t know how to react when he fails. You need to teach him how to skate through failure. That’s always been his problem, and today was the best day to do that. You need to coach him as I coach you, if you want him to win gold.”

Victor’s smile is brittle. “Thank you for your advice, Yakov. I will consider it.”

Yakov grunts. “Turn off the lights when you go.”

Victor sits back in the rink and closes his eyes.

Yakov’s words hang in the air. Victor lets himself think back to Yuuri’s skating that day – it had been fine, even with Yuuri’s obvious exhaustion at the end of the day. It wasn’t as if Yuuri didn’t have the stamina to pull off jumps. He’d landed all three of the jumps at the beginning of their impromptu Stammi duet beautifully.

 _Maybe I was being too soft on him_ , thinks Victor. _But I don’t think Yakov is right, not entirely. Yuuri knows how to overcome his failures – he’s done it his whole life without thinking about it. He’s just not very consistent about it when it comes to the ice or when there’s external pressure. Maybe I should have pushed him harder today. I was so overcome with being here again, though… I want him to love it here. I want him to be happy, so that he never regrets the choice he made in following me. I don’t want to push him so hard that he hates it here._

_Or hates me for bringing him._

Victor takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell and taste of the ice.

Ice doesn’t always smell the same, but Victor always recognizes it as ice. The ice in Sochi over a year before had a sour scent to it. If Victor wants to be romantic about it, he’ll say that it smelled sour because he _felt_ sour over his entire career.

The ice at Ice Castle Hasetsu had smelled fragrant, like jasmine and cherries and something else that he only recognized the first time he tasted the skin on Yuuri’s throat. Every time he skated at the Ice Castle, he felt as if he was being welcomed and admired from afar. Like the ice was waiting for him to do something wonderful, and was willing to wait very patiently, for as long as it took.

The ice in Saint Petersburg smells different. Victor’s never been able to determine what it is – it’s not sweat, or salt, or anything like that. It smells like laughter, and hugs, and kisses on the cheek. It smells like the warmth of a blanket on a cold night and a hand caressing his fevered brow. It smells like a light at the end of a dark hallway; like knowing that he’s safe because there are people there who will take care of him, no matter what.

Home. It smells like home. It even makes sense, because since he was ten, it’s _been_ home.

His muscles ache when he finally stands and makes his way out to the front of the complex. The drive is empty, but he doesn’t hesitate. He jogs down the steps, and by the time he reaches the bottom, Pavel is driving up in the car, having been alerted to Victor’s departure by the unseen person manning the surveillance cameras that dot the main entrance and surrounding grounds of the building.

“Hello, Pavel. Home, please.”

“Of course, Victor Andreyevich.”

Victor rests his head against the seat and closes his eyes. It’s been far too long since he’s heard his patronymic as many times as he has in the last 24 hours. It never used to give him the pang that it does now. Maybe it’s just hearing it from Yakov, who has rarely used it in the last ten years, but is one of the few people who remembers Andrei Konstantinovich Nikiforov.

_I should call Sergei. He’ll want to know I’m back._

And then Victor’s thoughts skitter away, as they always do.

_I need to decide on my free skate. I still don’t know what I want to say with it. I don’t want to skate something generic – not when the entire world will be watching, ready to jump on any inconsistency, ready to compare me to how I was and how Yuuri is now._

_It needs to say something important. Something meaningful. I need them to know… I just don’t know what._

_Maybe for now… just this. The relief of coming home, of being home. I’d forgotten how good it was to skate with a rink full of people I know, in a place I’ve skated my whole life. I felt like a child again._

_At least I can start something, and maybe I’ll find what I really want once I’ve begun._

It’s after nine when the car pulls up to his building. Dmitri Ivanovich is on the phone and cannot greet Victor with more than a wave and an open door. The elevator ride is endless, the hallway smells like borscht, and then he’s _home_.

The apartment is quiet. Yuuri’s left a lamp shining in the kitchen so that Victor doesn’t immediately trip in the darkness. He closes the door as softly as he can, flips the locks, takes off his coat and shoes and scarf. His stomach growls – but there’s something more important he wants to do first.

Yuuri is asleep. Victor leans against the doorway and smiles. The bedside light is on, and it’s clear that Yuuri was trying to stay awake as long as he could. There’s a book open on his chest, and his glasses are still perched on his nose. He’s sitting, propped up against some pillows, but he’s slumped since falling asleep, and Victor knows he’ll have a crick in his neck come morning if he doesn’t rearrange himself. He looks adorable. He looks exhausted. He looks like Victor dreamed him up. When Victor goes to move the books and glasses to a safer place, he brushes Yuuri’s cheek with a finger out of sheer curiosity.

“Huh?” Yuuri says, waking a little.

“Shh,” soothes Victor. “I’m just going to take Makkachin outside for a moment; I’ll be back.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, blearily. He slides down the mattress while Victor settles the blankets back over him.

Victor’s heart is light as he grabs a drumstick from the fridge, attaches Makkachin’s leash, and slips on his coat before heading outside. Makkachin wriggles next to him, leaning hard against his leg, as they ride the elevator down. In the lobby, Victor dodges Dmitri Ivanovich with just a wave of his hand before he heads out into the frozen winter air.

It feels like slipping into old habits, in a way. Taking Makkachin out when he returned home had always been their bonding time - one last chance for Victor to feel like a normal person before going to sleep for the night.

Now, Makkachin sniffs and examines the bushes, but doesn’t seem nearly as keen on making any marks in her favorite locations. The wind is cold; it smells off the water, even as far inland as they are.

“I guess you’re not used to going twice in an evening, are you?” Victor says to Makkachin, who wags her tail in response. “You’d probably rather be inside next to the radiator than out here in the wind. I’m sorry, I should have thought. We’ll have to find another way to spend time together.”

Makkachin presses her head against his thigh briefly before trotting back to the bushes for another sniff. Victor chuckles and keeps eating his dinner.

It had been a good day. He’d found his place just as he’d left it. Yuuri was fitting in, seemed to be comfortable. Anastasia had even given some kind of begrudging approval to Yuuri, which was such an unexpected and amazing occurrence that Victor can’t help but believe that it bodes well for everyone else liking Yuuri, too.

And he’d landed another quad. Victor smiles. He’d forgotten what it felt like, to try and try and try and then to _accomplish_. The elation… the adrenaline… he could have _flown_ to Yuuri, if he’d tried, even if Yuuri had been back in Hasetsu….

But he’s not. He’s upstairs, in Victor’s bed, sleeping, and he’ll be there in the morning when Victor wakes up. The idea of training next to Yuuri, living with Yuuri, _everything_ with Yuuri….

It’s not quite the same as landing a quad. Victor knows that particular joy is temporary. Before the next day is out, he’ll be back to gritting his teeth at another jump to relearn.

But Yuuri is forever. He’ll have _that_ joy for the rest of their lives.

 _This_ , thinks Victor. _This joy I’m feeling now – that’s what I want to skate._

Victor takes one last bite of the chicken before wrapping the leg up in the paper towel and throwing it in a nearby trash can.

“Okay, Makkachin,” says Victor, scratching Makkachin’s head. “Let’s go in.”

Makkachin barks and turns back to the apartment.

It’s not a program. Not yet.

But it’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Eto vse, po domam! (Russian) - That’s it, go home  
> YURA, SKOL’KO RAZ YA GOVORIL TEBE NE NAZYVAT’— (Russian) - YURA HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU NOT TO—  
> Dobriy vecher – Good evening  
> Khoroshego vechera – Good evening  
> Syuda, Yakov, tak ty navodish’ focus (Russian) - Here, Yakov, this is how you focus—  
> Ya znayu, kak rabotayet telefon, Vitya, ya ne takoy staryy. (Russian) - I know how a phone works, Vitya, I’m not that old.  
> Ladno, prosto fokusiruisya na mne! (Russian) - Okay, just keep it focused on me!  
> Ty deistvitel’no dumaesh’, chto ya nikogda ne delal etogo ran’she?!? (Russian) - Do you think I’ve never done this before?!?  
> Yakov, ty snyal eto? (Russian) - Did you get it, Yakov?  
> Da da da. Ya ne idiot, i Yuuri skazal, chto on vsyo videl. (Russian) - I’m not an idiot, and Yuuri says he saw it.  
> Minutu nazad ty skazal, chto ty ne nastol'ko stariy (Russian) - You just said you weren't that old!


	11. Russian Psychiatry 101

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up seven months late in the middle of the Olympics with Starbucks*
> 
> Hi! At the moment I can’t promise _regular_ posting, but I can promise _more_ regular posting, in that the entire story is written and most of it is even past the second draft so months-long delays should be at an end. Give me about two weeks between chapters for now. And yes, the final chapter count is *mumble*around40*mumble*with350Kwords*mumble*.
> 
> I also fully admit that I posted the chapter today just so I could use the "shows up seven months late" line in my A/N. I am a sad, sad person.

Yuuri wakes first. Unlike every rom-com book Phichit insisted he read – because Phichit has _terrible_ taste in reading material – he knows exactly where he is.

Victor’s bed, in Victor’s apartment, in Victor’s city. The bed is much softer than the bed they shared in Hasetsu; the flannel sheets are warm and smooth and the blankets are a heavy weight on Yuuri’s back. The room is darker, too, especially without the tell-tale sign of morning sun creeping around the black-out curtains. It’s not nearly as quiet as the inn; there are pops and shuffles, screeches and hisses, all signs of life from the other apartments above and below them. It’s not cold, but there’s a fresh crispness to the air, as well as the sound of far-off traffic, that tells Yuuri instantly they are far from open green spaces with willowy trees overhead.

The sudden rush of elation rushes over Yuuri; he almost buries his head into the pillows and squeals with glee, not unlike the first night Victor was in Hasetsu nearly a year before.

But what makes Yuuri the happiest is how _normal_ it seems. Like Yuuri has already woken here in Victor’s apartment a thousand times before.

_What feels so right cannot possibly be a bad idea_ , thinks Yuuri, turning to look at the man lying next to him.

Victor still sleeps, one arm thrown over his head, mouth open. His hair flies in all directions. There’s the faint shadow of stubble on Victor’s cheeks, such a pale peach color that it nearly blends into his skin. He’s shirtless, per usual, and one of his legs is trapped under Yuuri’s, so Yuuri can tell that he’s neglected pajama pants as well. Yuuri can feel the warmth of Victor’s bare skin, the hair that is scratchy or soft depending on the angle, the curve of Victor’s shin under Yuuri’s foot.

Without sunlight streaming in through the windows, looking at his phone, or being able to see the digital clock on Victor’s side of the bed, Yuuri has no idea what time it is. It could be the middle of the night; it could be early morning. Yuuri’s erection is the only indication that he’s slept as much as he probably will sleep that night – he doesn’t usually have one when he wakes after only a few hours – and he feels much too alert for it to be anything but a reasonable hour to wake up.

Still, he shifts closer to Victor, thinking to rest closer to him in order to relish the safe, warm cocoon they’ve made for themselves, and see if he can settle back to sleep before the alarm wakes them both up. His fingers brush up against Victor’s abdomen, soft and relaxed, Yuuri’s pinky rubbing up against the waistband of Victor’s boxer briefs. The skin is warm to the touch.

Victor’s eyes slide open, hazy and unfocused. He looks straight at Yuuri and goes still.

Yuuri holds his breath.

_Is he awake? Or will he fall back asleep?_ Yuuri’s not entirely sure which would be preferable. On one hand: he wants to talk to Victor, hear about his evening, tell him all the things that happened when they weren’t together.

On the other… he’s not quite willing to give up the quiet moments of watching him, without external pressure.

Victor doesn’t smile – he doesn’t even really stop for breath. He leans in and kisses Yuuri.

_Awake, then._

It’s a soft, gentle kiss, a lazy-good-morning kiss which quickly grows more intense as Yuuri reciprocates. Their arms wrap around each other, their bodies press together, skin sliding against skin, fabric catching as they move.

Yuuri’s not too surprised to find his morning erection has a friend.

He’s also not too surprised when Victor’s hands roam to the hem of Yuuri’s shirt, tugging it up as much as possible.

Yuuri grins into the kiss; Victor grins back.

“Okay, okay,” laughs Yuuri. He sits up to remove his shirt in a smooth motion, dropping it off the side of the bed. Victor’s eyes are full of sharp desire, an aching _want_ that echoes in Yuuri’s heart. “You could at least say good morning.”

“I thought I did,” says Victor cheekily, before reaching for Yuuri’s cheek and drawing him in for another kiss.

The air feels cool on Yuuri’s newly exposed skin when the blankets slide away. Victor pushes Yuuri back onto the bed, covering him as they kiss, hands on each other’s necks and fingers entangled in their hair. Yuuri’s nerves tingle where he’s not pressed to warm bed or warm Victor. When he draws his hands down Victor’s back, he’s not surprised to feel goosebumps. Victor even shivers a little bit – though that might be the sensation of Yuuri’s fingernails and not the temperature.

Still. Yuuri can’t help the giggle that escapes.

“I didn’t know Russians _got_ cold,” says Yuuri cheekily. “Did you turn off the radiators last night?”

“Can’t,” says Victor, but doesn’t explain.

Hidden under the blankets, noise is muffled. Yuuri closes his eyes, becomes lost in Victor’s touch, the scratch of stubble as Victor sucks a kiss into Yuuri’s neck. The sound of their breathing almost echoes. Victor’s fingers are as light on Yuuri’s skin as the blankets that cover them. Yuuri works his hands down Victor’s sides, straight to the waistband of Victor’s boxer briefs. He pulls them down slowly, one side and then the other, careful not to catch his cock in the folds. Instead, he catches it with his hand the moment it’s free, Victor’s underwear a band around his hips. Victor’s still not quite hard; the foreskin slips up and down with ease. Victor lets out a groan and nips at Yuuri’s neck.

“Vampire,” says Yuuri, amused. Victor nips him again with a playful growl.

Yuuri’s not in a hurry to end anything. He keeps his motions lazy and uneven, one stroke from the tip of Victor’s cock to the base, the other only going part-way before changing direction again. He holds his thumb over the slit, pressing down gently, because he’s learned that it makes Victor’s heart race, his breath catch in his throat. Sure enough, Victor shudders, sliding off Yuuri to lie on his side, one arm trapped under his head. Yuuri rolls to face him, his head tilted up to let Victor continue mouthing at his neck.

Victor’s free hand moves down Yuuri’s side, and then burrows under Yuuri’s pajama pants, cupping his ass briefly, fingernails digging in as Yuuri bends his top leg, pushing his knee in between Victor’s legs. It’s not meant as an invitation – but Victor takes it anyway, his fingers slipping into the crease, gently running over Yuuri’s hole to the perineum. His touches are feather-soft as they draw back over Yuuri’s buttocks, tracing circles that loop back and forth.

Yuuri’s mind is a blissful blank; all he knows is the deep darkness under the blankets; the sound of their shared breaths and gasps, the half-catches of sound they make in their throats. Victor’s skin is hot where it presses to Yuuri’s, and when Yuuri moves his face closer to Victor’s underarm, flung above his head, he can feel his stubble rasp against the tender skin. His own erection is a comfortable weight in his pants; Yuuri almost likes the slightly desperate feeling it gives him.

It’s slow and lazy and _perfect_ , and Yuuri never wants it to end.

“Yuuuuri,” groans Victor, every time his fingers run up against the apex of his legs, where Yuuri’s cock and balls are trapped on the other side. His breath is coming shorter and harsher; his cock in Yuuri’s hand is now hot and hard and faintly damp with all the precum that Yuuri’s worked into the skin. “I want to… let me…”

Yuuri gives Victor’s cock a gentle squeeze at the base, and Victor lets out a choked cry, before surging up to kiss Yuuri’s mouth greedily. Yuuri gives in to the kiss because the immediate surge of _want_ is too powerful to resist.

He unbends his knee and draws his leg back, falling away just a little. Victor’s hand slides between Yuuri’s hip and his pants to grasp his cock. Suddenly, it’s hurried and clumsy and _desperate_ , and the moment Victor’s hand touches him, Yuuri’s lost.

Victor comes quickly, the cries in the back of his throat muffled through the kiss as his entire body goes rigid with his orgasm. Yuuri lets him breathe, kisses the skin around his mouth, his jaw, his neck, anywhere he can reach until Victor’s tension releases, and he slumps against Yuuri again.

When Victor turns and presses kisses to Yuuri’s throat, Yuuri moves his hand, wet with Victor’s come, into his pants, entwines his fingers with Victor’s, and slowly starts to slide their joined hands on his own cock. It takes a little bit longer, and by the time he’s coming, Victor has recovered sufficiently from his post-orgasm lethargy to kiss him and whisper what are undoubtedly extremely filthy things in Russian into his mouth.

They rest facing each other, hands still entwined. Their little cocoon is almost too hot for comfort; it smells of sex and morning breath and the fabric softener Yuuri’s not sure he likes very much.

There’s a cramp in Yuuri’s right shoulder. He shifts, trying to alleviate the tension, and accidentally rams his eye into the tip of Victor’s nose.

_“Ow_ ,” grunts Victor. He sounds more surprised than pained, which is all well and good for him. Yuuri’s eye might have exploded for how much it hurts; since when had Victor’s nose been so _sharp_? “Are you okay?”

“I’ll never see properly again,” says Yuuri, blinking rapidly. He can see stars dancing around the room.

“I’ve had worse things happen in bed,” says Victor. “Did I ever tell you about the time when—”

“No,” says Yuuri firmly. He sits up and the blankets fall away; the sudden exposure of sweat-damp skin to the cool air makes Yuuri shiver, even if the apartment is warmer than he’d normally like.

“Cold, _solnyshko_?”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “And to think I’d been planning to ask if we could turn _down_ the heat.”

“Can’t,” repeats Victor, stretching up his arms before folding them behind his head. “I cracked open a window, it’s really the only thing to do. What time is it?”

“Time to get a clock,” says Yuuri cheekily. He lets out a shriek when Victor yanks the pillow out from under his head to throw it at him. “ _Vitya_!”

Victor twists to look at the clock on his bedside table. “Five minutes,” he says, pleased. “And then we’ll go down to the gym before we leave for the rink.”

Yuuri pokes his fingers into Victor’s stomach. “ _Vitya._ No being a coach when we’re naked!”

“That was the _best_ way to wake up,” says Victor.

*

The gym is very nice for being an apartment building’s afterthought, even if it doesn’t have windows. It’s still empty so early in the morning. Victor turns on the television as Yuuri figures out how to set up the treadmill for intermittent hills and speeds. When it lands on Russia Today, Victor quickly changes it to BBC World.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind,” says Yuuri as the treadmill starts running. It’s not as pleasant as running outside, but if Victor says it’s too cold, Yuuri’s inclined to believe him.

_It’s definitely too dark_ , thinks Yuuri, remembering the pitch-black sky he’d glimpsed from the living room windows. _And given the snow and ice I saw yesterday, probably slippery too. I don’t want to trip and sprain my ankle my second day here._

They don’t talk while they run; afterwards it’s back upstairs for a quick shower. The apartment’s warmth isn’t the least bit comfortable on Yuuri’s sweaty skin; his clothes seem particularly difficult to remove, and he keeps adjusting the temperature in the shower colder, colder, colder, to compensate.

Victor is already munching on toast when Yuuri emerges, drying his hair with a towel. “Figured out the hot water all right?”

“Yes. I forgot to tell you, Mom and Dad said to say hello. There’s a video on Skype if you want to watch.”

Victor perks up a bit. “I will tonight. If we get up earlier tomorrow, we can call them.”

Yuuri groans at the thought of waking earlier. He groans again when he sits at the table and looks at what Victor’s prepared for breakfast: oranges and hard-boiled eggs and toast scraped with strawberry jam. A perfectly sound, healthy meal that will help them power through the next two hours of skating until they can grab something more substantial in the cafeteria.

Still. All Yuuri can think about is the weight of the egg and toast on his stomach. Worse is the bright red jam, which has no right to be looking so cheerful so early in the morning.

“Something wrong?” asks Victor. His spoon scrapes the plastic container of his yogurt cup.

“Just thinking of Mom’s miso soup,” says Yuuri wistfully.

“Oh.” Victor glances at Yuuri’s breakfast. “I could ask Marina. Unless you know how to make it?”

“No. And I’d rather sleep the extra twenty minutes, even if I did.” Yuuri sighs. “I should have brought sesame spread to put on my toast.”

Victor gives him a sympathetic kiss on the top of his head. “Put peanut butter on the list, Marina can buy it the next time she does the shopping.”

“ _Not_ the same thing,” says Yuuri, but he sits and eats his breakfast anyway while Victor takes his turn in the shower.

Yuuri’s still checking and rechecking the contents of his bag when they make their way outside. “You can leave it all at the rink, you know,” says Victor, amused. “That’s why we have lockers.”

“I will. I’m just not used to staying in one location the entire day,” explains Yuuri. Change of workout clothes, change of street clothes, extra socks, extra bandages, extra athletic tape, his iPod charger and adapter….

_I should get an extra charger to leave at the rink_ , thinks Yuuri as they step outside. Pavel’s already waiting for them, the sky is still pitch-black, but there are people on the sidewalks bundled against the cold.

“But you like it, yes?” asks Victor as he opens the car door. There’s a bit of hopeful worry on his face. Yuuri smiles as reassuringly as he can.

“I do. It’s convenient. Even if I’m only going to see daylight through windows.”

Victor chuckles. “Everyone likes you. I knew they would. They are very happy to have you here -  but no one more than _me_.”

“ _Vitya_ ,” says Yuuri, blushing. “I think they’re just happy you’re back.”

Victor leans across the seat to give Yuuri a gentle kiss. “No,” he says, kissing him again, this time with added tongue, just as Pavel coughs pointedly from the front seat.

Victor pulls away and readjusts his seatbelt, as if he hadn’t been about to maul Yuuri on the short drive to the rink. “You’ll tell me, though, if anyone says anything unkind to you.”

Yuuri is aware of the breath he takes, the sound of the traffic outside the car. The way Victor adjusts his gloves without looking at Yuuri, the cap on Pavel’s head.

_We expect great things from you, Katsuki Yuuri_. Valentina’s voice has faded; all Yuuri really remembers now is the words, the determination in them, the expectation and the threat that was so deeply buried he’s no longer sure he didn’t imagine it in the first place.

“Everyone’s been very nice,” Yuuri assures Victor.

_Stupid. Of course an FFKKR official would want Russian skaters to excel over anyone else. The JSF was the same with Celestino about how much time he spent with me versus Phichit. I’m not just Victor’s and Yurio’s and Georgi’s rinkmate – I’m their competition. Training me is one thing – training me to win at their expense is another._

“Good,” says Victor. He stops fiddling with his seat belt and pulls out his phone, letting out a soft snort as he opens Instagram. “The girls posted a picture for you of the Ice Castle.”

“Oh?” Yuuri leans over to look. Sure enough, there’s yet another banner draped across the Ice Castle. He translates the kanji aloud for Victor’s benefit. “ _Ganbatte Yuuri and Victor; we miss you already!_ I’ll send them a thank-you when I’m back on Wi-Fi.”

“Oh, right. I forgot your phone wouldn’t work here. We’ll get you a SIM card on Sunday.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri absently, resting his head on Victor’s shoulder.

“Or maybe this afternoon during our telecast tour,” muses Victor. “Yuuri, let me introduce you to Saint Petersburg by showing you the glorious Russian cell phone store.”

Yuuri giggles. “That’ll make fascinating television.”

“I don’t think fascinating television is the point,” says Victor. He holds up his phone so that Yuuri can watch him scroll through Instagram. “Why are there so many cats on my feed?”

“Because all your friends have cats,” says Yuuri. It’s comfortable against Victor’s shoulder; he could very easily fall asleep again. Surely no one would notice if he just closed his eyes for a minute?

“I make the wrong kinds of friends,” complains Victor.

“Post more pictures of Makkachin.”

“Yuuuuu-ri. You’re falling asleep.”

“No, I’m not,” says Yuuri, eyes closed.

The trip to the skating complex feels much faster than the day before. The lobby and hallways are bustling and busy despite the early hour, and the locker room is noisy with other skaters as they slam their locker doors and shout back and forth to each other. It’s all just white noise as Yuuri pulls off his heavy winter coat, revealing his Team Japan jacket underneath.

Victor laughs. “Oh, _Yuuri_. We need to find you something more suitable.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen; for a moment, his heart stops in his chest.

_But… I’m still Team Japan._

Yuuri clutches his jacket. “I – _no_.”

Victor isn’t looking at him; he’s busy kicking off his tennis shoes and pulling where his socks have bunched up by his ankles. “Don’t be stubborn. I didn’t think that coat was going to be warm enough, and if you’re wearing your warm-up jacket under it, you’ll be sweaty before you even start practicing. You’ll end up with pneumonia. We’ll get you a thicker coat this weekend so you don’t have to wear your warm-up jacket under it, okay?”

Yuuri can’t help the relieved sigh. _Oh. Okay, I misunderstood. He’s not looking to replace my Team Japan jacket. Of course not. I’m just being sensitive._

“It seems like a waste, though. This coat’s new—”

“You’ll still wear it, just not in the dead of winter,” Victor assures him, already stretching out for the ice. “Time to stretch, Yuuri! You don’t want your coach to yell at you, do you?”

“Ha ha,” says Yuuri, and sits opposite Victor on the floor.

It’s a relief to settle into a normal routine. An _almost_ normal routine, at least. Victor and Yuuri go through their preferred stretches while talking through the day’s plans. The only difference is the location and the language spoken around them.

_It’ll be fine today. We won’t have the privacy we had at the Ice Castle, but… it’s not like I haven’t had rinkmates before, people watching me fall and trip and screw up my choreography. I can do this._

“Ready?” says Victor cheerfully, once they’re stretched out and their skates are on.

“Nope,” says Yuuri, equally cheerful.

Georgi is already on the ice, scowling at a piece of paper near the boards while he and Yakov discuss something.

“Oh, good, I wanted to talk to Yakov,” says Victor, completely heedless that Yakov is busy with another skater. Yuuri decides not to watch. He’s fairly sure it’ll end with yelling anyway, and besides, the sooner he’s skating, the sooner he can forget that everyone’s eyes are going to be on him today.

Mila loops Yuuri by the arm the moment he steps onto the ice. Yuuri thinks she might be trying to form a habit of skating with him first thing every day – but since Mila has been extremely good at imparting information Victor tends to forget is necessary, Yuuri doesn’t mind too much.

“I hear you’re going sight-seeing this afternoon,” says Mila cheerfully.

“Sort of. I’m hoping we can stop somewhere and get a SIM card for my phone.”

Mila pats his arm. “Hope is good. Hold onto that.”

“Does everyone know about the filming?”

“Of course. There’s always a pool about what Vitya will do for the telecast. Showing you the sights is so obvious that it’s really more of a question about what you’ll see.”

“He’s done these telecasts before?” asks Yuuri.

“The last four years, at least. Yura complained about having to film this morning. He’d been hoping to take the train this afternoon but now he’ll have to go in the evening instead. But that’s just Yura – he’ll never admit it, but he’s very pleased to have been asked.”

Yuuri glanced around the ice. “I’m surprised Yakov let him miss morning practice.”

Mila shakes her head. “It’s not really Yakov’s decision.”

Which Yuuri can understand, a little. Certainly the JSF had ideas about the ways in which Yuuri was expected to pay his dues, and it wasn’t always wise to argue.

_But they didn’t really ask for anything I wasn’t prepared to offer,_ thinks Yuuri. _And never anything that would have interfered with training._

“Where’s Yurio going?” asks Yuuri.

“Home to Moscow. He goes every year between Nationals and Christmas to see his grandfather.”

It takes Yuuri a moment to remember: _Russians celebrate Christmas in January._ “Oh. Seems an odd time, with Europeans coming up.”

Mila shrugs. “There’s always half-days and extra rest days this time of year, anyway. Yura will keep skating, there are rinks in Moscow he can use. Eteri will watch him; she _hates_ Yakov, but she won’t let Yura come to harm. Anyway, we’ll have a good time even without Yura to amuse us. Especially since you and Vitya can actually stay for all of Yakov’s party; Victor’s always missed it before because he was filming some horrible skit or something. One year,” says Mila, squeezing Yuuri’s arm and lowering her voice, “Vitya _sang_.”

“Lies,” says Victor, skating up to Mila’s other side.

“Truth,” Mila corrects him. “It was _horrifying._ I still have nightmares.”

“Yakov!” Victor shouts over his shoulder. “Mila says she wants to do nothing but lunges and triples today!”

Yakov’s response is short but clear. “Get to work, all of you! This is not social hour!”

Mila laughs and releases Yuuri to skate ahead of them, building up speed to start in on her jumps. Victor quickly slides into the space she’s left behind.

“Believe nothing she tells you,” he says.

“Definitely not,” says Yuuri, but only because in his years of being a Victor Nikiforov fanboy, he’s never found a video of the man _singing_.

Then again – he’s never known he should _look_ for one.

“So,” says Victor, “I think we should work on alternate programs for Eros and Yuri on Ice.”

Yuuri frowns. “Are you sure you want to re-choreograph them _now_?”

_While you’re meant to be choreographing your own programs?_

“No, not that – I want to look at the elements and see if we can increase your base technical score while keeping the same choreography. You’ve already started changing some of the elements, so really this is just an extension of that. It’s later in the season, everyone will have seen your programs multiple times by now. You need to challenge yourself to keep the audience surprised, especially if you want to have a better chance of landing on the podium at the 4CCs or Worlds.”

“Of course I do,” says Yuuri, bristling a little bit. “I owe you four more gold medals.”

“Five,” Victor corrects him.

“Japanese gold counts.”

“For marriage, yes. For your coaching fees, not entirely. I have to check the algorithm,” muses Victor, looking entirely too serious to be joking.

“Victor, tell me there’s not really an algorithm. Victor? _Victor_?”

“Back to work, Yuuri!”

Morning free skate is much quieter without Yurio; already Yuuri misses hearing his shouting and sarcastic commentary. When Yuuri stumbles out of a quad Sal, he can almost hear Yuri scoffing, the unspoken “ _Moron!_ ” echoing across the ice.

The time goes quickly, helped by Victor’s close presence as they work through the choreography for Yuri on Ice, switching elements for more difficult combinations. Before Yuuri knows it, there’s sunlight just beginning to creep in through the windows, and a glance at the clock shows that their ice time is nearly over.

“I’m sorry,” says Yuuri, and Victor raises an eyebrow.

“No need to apologize; you’ll land it better next time.”

“No, I mean – it’s your practice time too,” says Yuuri. “And you’ve spent it all with me when you should have been working with Yakov.”

Victor shrugs. “Georgi’s keeping him busy, changing the focus of his programs. Besides, Yakov is annoyed that we’re going to be out all afternoon filming, so he’d rather ignore me for now.”

“Oh.” Yuuri watches as Georgi skates out to try what is obviously new choreography. Mila glides up to them, out of breath and looking overly pleased with herself. “I didn’t think his program was _that_ bad. He did really well at Nationals.”

“Apparently,” says Victor, amused, “he doesn’t want to skate about Anya anymore.”

Mila grins. “He’s in _love_ again.”

“Is changing his programs so drastically a good idea?” asks Yuuri. Georgi’s new choreography is interesting, but not quite as complex as his earlier program.

“Only if he wins,” says Mila. “Did you notice our audience today?”

“Is that Georgi’s new girl?” asks Victor, perking up as all three of them look at the woman sitting on the benches, watching the ice. She’s dressed in black slacks with a thick grey cowl-neck sweater. Her hair falls in soft blonde curls at her shoulders, a style that makes her look sweet and young and very innocent. Yuuri doesn’t know what kind of girl Georgi likes, but she reminds him of the girls Phichit always ended up dating exactly twice before moving on to the next conquest: sweet and friendly and bubbly and fun, without a lick of world experience.

She’s not watching Georgi, though. She’s watching the three of them, eyes scrunched up in contemplation, her chin resting in her lightly clenched hand.

“ _Nyet_ ,” says Mila cheerfully. She pokes Yuuri with her elbow. “She’s here for _you_.”

“What?!?” exclaims Yuuri, startled. Victor covers his mouth, laughing.

“She’s been watching you all morning,” sings Mila, skating backwards now. “Just you.”

“Wow,” says Victor, eyes dancing. “Yuuri, you have a _fan_.”

“That’s… that’s not funny!” cries Yuuri.

Victor clearly doesn’t agree. “Let’s give her a good show, Yuuri!”

“ _Dō shiyō_ ,” groans Yuuri, as he goes to try the new jump sequences again.

*

The woman is still there when Yakov finally calls them off the ice. Yuuri briefly considers just staying out rather than skating off and having to face her. It’s one thing to _know_ he has fans – it’s another thing entirely to interact with people who think he’s wonderful without knowing anything about him. At least in Detroit, Yuuri remained somewhat anonymous. Most people didn’t recognize him, and if they did, they didn’t approach him. The residents of Hasetsu were just as unlikely to fawn over him, since they remembered when he’d been a toddler in diapers.

Victor undoubtedly catches his hesitation, because he doesn’t give Yuuri much of a chance to consider his escape route. Instead, he throws his arm over Yuuri’s shoulders and starts skating them toward the exit, as if there’s no one waiting for either of them on the other side of the boards.

“Look at it this way, Yuuri,” says Victor cheerfully. “Yura’s not here.”

“ _That’s_ the silver lining?” says Yuuri incredulously, and then thinks of the way Yurio would hang on every word he might exchange with his unexpected fan and find ways of repeating it back for the next century at the worst possible times. “Okay. Yeah. That would be worse.”

Victor squeezes his shoulders and leans in close. “Be nice, and I’ll suck you off in the locker room.”

“ _What?!?!?_ ” shrieks Yuuri, stumbling on his skates and almost going face-first on the ice. They’re nearly at the boards; all he can think is that maybe the fan _heard_ him. His hands shake so badly when they finally step off the ice that it takes a few tries to get his skate guards on.

_Great, just great, now she’s gonna think I’m an idiot._

_Not that I want her to think I’m not an idiot._

_I mean – I don’t want anyone thinking I’m an idiot._

_Now I just sound like an idiot in addition to looking like an idiot._

_I am going to kill Victor_.

“Hi, Yuuri,” chirps the woman in bright, American-accented English. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping in to your practice like this? I don’t usually make surprise visits but I just found out that you’re going to miss our afternoon session? And since I’m off next week, I didn’t really want to wait two weeks to meet you?”

It takes Yuuri’s head a ridiculously long time to parse what she’s just said. It’s been a while since he heard statements that sound more like questions. “Um. Hi?”

The woman laughs. It’s such a cheerful sound that it makes Mila seem dour by comparison. “Oh, oops, I forgot the introduction part? Sorry. I’m Kathy Jenkins-Leonova, I’m the sports psychiatrist here? I was given your file, and we were supposed to have our introductory appointment this afternoon, but I guess you were roped into that telecast Victor always does.”

_Sports psychiatrist._

_My sports psychiatrist._

_A… psychiatrist? I thought Victor said psychologist…._

“You’re American,” says Yuuri, his brain still spinning off, trying to remember exactly how Victor had pronounced the word in English. Or maybe it was a translation error? He’s always said his English isn’t as good as Yuuri’s – and it isn’t like Victor can really be expected to know there’s a difference between the two professions.

Kathy laughs. “Canadian-born, actually. I went to school in Milwaukee, though – that’s where I met my husband? He’s Russian, and we moved here right after school. You studied in Detroit, right?”

“Yeah – um – look, I don’t really think I need—”

“I have a free hour coming up before lunch,” says Kathy, as if she spots his attempt to get out of seeing her from a mile away. “I’m sure you’re busy, but I really would like to sit and chat with you before the holidays, even if it’s only for a few minutes? I have tea! And cookies! Office 426 – I’ve got the _best_ view, come for that if nothing else.”

“I should really stretch out,” says Yuuri, desperate. “Since I’m not practicing this afternoon. Sorry.”

Kathy’s smile never falters. “Okay. If you get a chance, though. Even if it’s only for a few minutes. I really look forward to getting to know you, Yuuri!”

“Thanks,” says Yuuri, faintly. He manages to stay on his feet and not look like a mentally deranged idiot until she’s left the rink.

And _then_ he sits down onto the bench with a thud, because his heart is pounding in his chest and his skin is tingling in his fingers and his blood is racing and his leg is bouncing up and down and up and down and up and down so hard that he has to pull it up under his chin and hug it tight to his chest to make it stop.

_ Kuso kuso kuso kuso kuso kuso….!  _

“She seemed nice,” says Victor as he sits next to Yuuri.

Yuuri yanks at his laces; there’s a sickening _rrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiipppp_ as the fabric runs roughly against his gloves. With Yuuri’s nerves are already on edge, the unpleasant sound is enough to make him cringe.

Victor doesn’t seem to notice Yuuri’s agitation as he unlaces his own skates.

_Well, it’s not like he’s ever been the most observant person in the room,_ thinks Yuuri wildly.

“Pretty too,” continues Victor. He sounds far too chipper for someone who’s just watched his fiancé talking to someone _pretty_ , though.

_Wait – does Victor know who she is?_ wonders Yuuri, growing even more frantic. He drops the laces and spins on the bench to face Victor.

“ _That’s_ all you have to say about her?” demands Yuuri. “That she’s _pretty_?”

Victor doesn’t look surprised so much as he looks… unamused. “Was there something else for me to notice? You didn’t look like you wanted to continue the conversation with her, so I’m not especially worried that you’re going to leave me for her.”

“That’s… that’s… _that’s ridiculous!_ ” cries Yuuri.

“Good,” says Victor. “Then I think you should skip the yoga class this morning and go to her office.”

Yuuri stares at Victor, who doesn’t even have the decency to look up from unlacing his skates.

“You… you think….” He swallows.

_Victor thinks I need a psychiatrist, too? This is a nightmare._

“At least your psychologist is pretty,” says Victor, sounding a bit morose. “Mine is older than Yakov and has even less hair.”

“I heard that!” Yakov shouts from the table near the rink. Victor grins as he pulls off his first skate.

Yuuri shakes his head. “She’s not a psychologist. She’s a _psychiatrist_.”

“All right. Does it matter?”

“Does it – yes, of course it matters! Psychologists, they just talk to you. You need a psychiatrist when you’ve really got something wrong that can only be fixed by medication. Stuff like depression or PTSD or—” Yuuri takes a breath “—anxiety.”

Victor pulls off his other skate, and turns to Yuuri on the bench. “Yuuri—”

“Don’t say it,” hisses Yuuri, lowering his voice. “I know I’ve got… but I don’t need medication. I don’t _want_ medication. I’ve done just fine on my own, and I don’t care if the stupid skating federation here doesn’t think I’m capable of winning unless I’ve got some pill to pop when the going gets tough. I’m not going to do it! I’m just fine on my own!”

“I don’t think I know that idiom, _pill to pop_ ,” says Victor thoughtfully. “Is the pill meant to burst into pieces?”

Yuuri groans and falls forward to cover his face with his arms.

“Yuuri. No one is saying you’re not doing well.”

“Then why assign me to the person who can prescribe me medication?” groans Yuuri. “Why not give my file to a psychologist, like all the rest of you?”

“It’s probably because she speaks better English. I doubt any of the psychologists speak Japanese, and your Russian isn’t that good yet. Besides, it’s not like you’ve been formally diagnosed with anxiety.”

Yuuri’s entire body feels like when he goes into an upright spin on the ice – the world racing in tight circles around him, so fast he can’t focus.

He closes his eyes tight and lets his fingers find his half-laced skates, working on pure instinct.

“Yuuri?”

Victor’s voice floats around him, soft and comforting and grounding.

“Three years ago,” mumbles Yuuri. “Celestino—”

_“I’m worried about you, Yuuri. Phichit says you haven’t slept through the night in the last month, and I can tell you’re dizzy every time you step on the ice.”_

“I went to the Student Health Center on campus – they referred me to a psychiatrist. He gave me the diagnosis.”

Victor doesn’t say anything.

_But he’s not leaving, either,_ Yuuri tells himself. _He’s still sitting there. Listening. Thinking. Watching me._

_Like in Barcelona, in the Christmas market. Neither of us knew what to say – so we didn’t say anything. And then I saw the rings, and… everything made so much sense, once he gave me the space to work my way through it._

_That’s all he’s doing now. Letting me work my way through it. I’ve got to try to explain it to him._

“Valentina said she had my medical files,” continues Yuuri, growing bitter. “So yeah, I’m sure someone saw the diagnosis and decided that I’m screwed up enough to warrant a psychiatrist who speaks English.”

Victor is still not moving; Yuuri, however, can feel every muscle in his body pushing for him to move. To stand and run laps or backflips or _something_ to release the nervous energy coursing through him. Yuuri settles for continuing to unlace his skates. “The doctor in Detroit didn’t even really _talk_ to me. He just had me fill out some paperwork and do a couple of blood tests and that was it. That woman, the psychiatrist here – Kathy? I met girls like her in Detroit. They’re always so happy and friendly and sweet, they just want everyone to be just as _normal_ as they are. She’s going to take one look at my files and she’s going to want to stick me on some weird brand of medication that she’ll _claim_ won’t affect my performance or get me in trouble with the ISU. All she’s going to want to do is _fix_ me.”

His skates are unlaced – but Yuuri rests his hands on his shins, unable to find the energy to pull the skates off and switch to his shoes.

The silence stretches. The blood rushes to Yuuri’s head.

“Say something, please,” whispers Yuuri.

_Anything. I don’t even care what it is. I just… I need to hear your voice, know that you heard all of this so I never have to repeat it again._

The silence only lasts for another moment – but it feels like a century.

“I’m twenty-eight years old,” says Victor. For a moment, Yuuri has the wild desperate idea that Victor hasn’t heard a thing. “My hair is silver, and it’s thinning.”

Yuuri makes an odd, shocked noise in his throat. He sits up so quickly that the blood swirls in his head. Victor sits on the bench next to him, his face calm and concerned and focused entirely on Yuuri. “ _Victor_! Didn’t you hear a word—”

“Does my hair mean something is wrong with me?” continues Victor. The question is a challenge. “Tell me, Yuuri. Because it’s not exactly natural, is it, for a man my age and at my level of health to have thinning, gray hair.”

“Of course there’s nothing wrong with you,” snaps Yuuri. “It’s just – that’s your _hair_.”

Victor nods sharply. “So it’s not something I should fix?”

Yuuri stares at him. “Are you seriously trying to compare _your hair issues_ to _my anxiety_?”

“Yuuri,” says Victor sternly. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Your anxiety – that’s a part of you. It’s not something that anyone can fix, because it’s not something that _needs_ to be fixed. It’s _you_.”

Yuuri’s mouth drops open. There’s so many things wrong with Victor’s misguided attempt at comfort, he’s not even sure where to _begin_ – and then Victor reaches out and takes his hand, holding it firmly and gently.

“I could dye my hair. Or not. That’s my decision. You could take medication. Or not. That’s _your_ decision. I’ll support you either way.”

There’s a warmth spreading in Yuuri’s chest. He presses his lips together, suddenly feeling the warmth work its way up into his throat and nose and eyes, threatening to burst out of him in ways that would surely give Yurio teasing fodder for years.

“That’s not exactly how it works,” Yuuri finally manages to choke out. “And that is possibly the _worst_ analogy I’ve ever heard for anxiety.”

Victor smiles – one of his heart-shaped, relieved smiles. “Will you go?”

Yuuri takes a breath. “Are you asking me as my coach, or as my fiancé?”

“That depends,” says Victor. “As your fiancé, I fully support any decision you make about your body, including what medications you wish to take and what doctors you wish to consult. As your coach, if you don’t want to go to yoga, I have planned a rigorous training for the next hour in the weight room, followed by an eight-kilometer run and maybe a competition to see who can jog up and down the stairs fastest. Unless, of course, you have something else to do.”

He looks so earnest and bright. Yuuri wants to smack him. Instead, he settles for a glare.

It’d be even _more_ annoying if Yuuri wasn’t already thinking about at least looking for Kathy’s office.

_Just to see where it is. I don’t have to go in. I could just stand in the doorway and say hello._

_It’s not like she’s going to tie me down and force pills down my throat._

“I’m helping you save face!” insists Victor.

“That’s not how it works,” says Yuuri primly, but he reaches to put on his shoes anyway.

“So you’ll go?”

Yuuri waits until he’s finished tying the knots.

“I’ll go.”

*

Kathy’s door is open. It’s the only open door in the entire hallway, though considering the entire hallway is made up of psychologists, that’s probably not surprising. Yuuri stands in the hall, just out of view from anyone inside the office, and thinks.

He can’t hear anything from inside except typing and Kathy occasionally mumbling something to herself.

_She’s a nice person. She seems like a nice person. She’s probably a nice person. She’s Canadian. Most Canadians are very nice. JJ is an aberration._

He takes a breath and steps into the doorway.

The office is a little bit smaller than Valentina Maratovna’s office two levels below. But unlike Valentina’s office, this space has clearly been lived in. Photographs on the walls, a bookshelf teeming with books, more photographs, and small figurines of people wearing native costumes from around the world. A ridiculously comfortable-looking couch is shoved up against the side wall overlooking the large window. Opposite the couch is Kathy’s desk, where she’s sitting on a rolling chair, furiously typing. Her hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail that hasn’t been pulled fully through the elastic. Yuuri’s sure she doesn’t see him, because she’s still muttering to herself.

“Um. Hi?”

“Just a sec,” says Kathy, with barely a glance at him. She waves haphazardly at the couch behind her.

Yuuri hesitates for a moment – but Kathy has zeroed in on her screen again. He takes a step inside the office, hand still on the doorway as if it’ll help him make a quick getaway.

[The view out of the window really is fantastic](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/0/01/Spb_06-2012_University_Embankment_01.jpg/1024px-Spb_06-2012_University_Embankment_01.jpg). They’re just high enough that Saint Petersburg’s rooftops are layered like rows of seats in a movie theater, stretching back into the distance. Brightly colored buildings outlined in white make up the forefront, with darker, greyer buildings in the distance, as if half the city is under cloud cover. It’s hazy in the ridiculously late sunrise, almost magical with the squares of dark rooftops and tangles of tree limbs interspersed between them. Yuuri has an idea that it’s gorgeous in the summertime – even now, with an overcast sky, it’s a stunning view.

Kathy types for another moment, and then hits three buttons with a satisfied flourish before the screen goes dark. She spins in her chair and grins at him. “You _did_ decide to come! Fantastic, I’m so glad. What do you think of my view?”

“Beautiful.”

“Isn’t it though? I really lucked out. Do you have time to sit? I have tea. Or coffee.”

“I’m okay,” says Yuuri, fidgeting a little. “I don’t have to stay, if you’re busy—”

“No, no, I need to step away from it for a while,” says Kathy, hopping up and going to the table near the door, where there’s an electric kettle and several canisters of loose-leaf tea. “The best part about Russia is the _tea_.”

“The tea?” echoes Yuuri, watching as Kathy opens one of the canisters and takes a sniff.

“Yeah,” says Kathy dreamily. “Misha says the only reason I fell for him was the tea.”

“Russians aren’t the only ones who drink tea,” Yuuri points out.

“Ah, but ask a Russian, they’ll claim to have invented the proper way to drink it,” says Kathy with a grin. “Of course, they also invented television and space exploration.”

Yuuri can’t help it – there’s something so _friendly_ about her. The more she talks, the more she reminds him a little of Phichit and less of the girls he’d met in Detroit. There’s something more confident about her in her own office – the questioning manner that she’d shown by the rink is gone. Yuuri’s not sure what to make of this Kathy – but he thinks he might like her. “Did they?”

Kathy laughs and sets down the canister. “Here, pick one out. I’ve got decaffeinated, too. If there’s something you like and you don’t see it here, let me know. I’m not above bribery to keep you coming back.”

There’s a small canister of green tea – so small, Yuuri feels bad asking for it, but Kathy quickly picks up on his hesitation and spoons it out anyway. “I’ve got more at home,” she assures him. “There’s just not enough space here for my backstock, and not many of my skaters ask for green tea. My bag makes a racket when it’s time to restock, drives the security guards up the wall.”

“Security guards?”

“You haven’t been here long enough to notice them – they try to stay inconspicuous. Took me a year before I saw any of them.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Oh, four years here, but we moved to Saint Petersburg ten years ago,” says Kathy cheerfully. “Straight out of grad school.”

“Milwaukee,” remembers Yuuri.

Kathy’s clearly pleased he remembers. “I know it’s only been a few days, but… be honest. Winter in Saint Petersburg so far?”

“I have never been so cold in my entire life,” says Yuuri fervently. Kathy lets out a peal of laughter.

After that, the conversation flows, from comparing winters in Detroit and Milwaukee to winters in Saint Petersburg, to baseball and the Detroit Tigers and the Milwaukee Brewers and the incomprehensible American obsession with American football and entire menus of things that are inexplicably wrapped in bacon.

“Frosties,” says Kathy wistfully. “I miss Wendy’s Frosties the most. The ice cream here isn’t even _close_ to the same thing, and the imported stuff is too expensive.”

Yuuri shakes his head. He cradles his tea mug in his hands as he sits on the couch – or _in_ it, since the cushions are so soft he’s almost sunk down to the floor. “Cinnabon.”

Kathy rolls to her side with a groan that’s almost orgasmic. “Oh, _God_ , Cinnabon. There’s two in Saint Petersburg, and I don’t live anywhere near either of them. I can’t believe you ever ate one, though – do you know how many calories are in a single Cinnabon?”

Yuuri smiles. “I never ate them. I just liked the way they smelled.”

“You’re better off,” Kathy told him. “There’s some mornings when I’m so tempted to make a detour on the way to work, I can’t even tell you.”

Yuuri takes a sip of his tea, surprised to find it’s gone cold. When he glances at the clock, he’s even more startled. “Oh! I lost track of time, I was supposed to meet Victor five minutes ago.”

Kathy grins. “I’d feel bad, but it was _so_ good to not speak Russian for a little while. _Please_ say you’ll come back after the holidays? Or anytime you need an English-language break, or at least some tea?”

The shift in the air leaves almost a bitter taste in his mouth. Yuuri doesn’t think it’s the tea. “Kinda have to, don’t I?” he says. “I mean – that’s why they gave you my file.”

“Not really,” says Kathy easily. “I mean – yeah, I have your file, but that doesn’t mean anything, if you don’t want it to.”

Yuuri isn’t sure what to make of that. “But – aren’t you supposed to, I don’t know, help me get over my anxiety?”

There’s a quiet pause. Yuuri can’t look at Kathy – instead, he looks out the window. The sunlight is feeble through the overcast sky, but he can see traffic moving on the roads, boats on the river, tiny dots of pedestrians crossing the bridges and walking along the sidewalks. The occupants of Saint Petersburg go about their day, completely at home and comfortable with themselves.

_Or not. Who knows what they’re thinking. Maybe some of them are as screwed up as I am._

“Yuuri,” chides Kathy gently. “You and I both know that’s not exactly how it works. Anyway, all I really wanted to do today was find out how you’re settling in, help you over any culture shock you might be experiencing. It’s a pretty sizable shift, moving from one country to another, let alone navigating what’s still a new romantic relationship at the same time. For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing very well so far.”

Yuuri leans forward on the couch. “But you’re a psychiatrist. We didn’t even _talk_ about my problems.”

“Do you want to?” asks Kathy. As if it’s the simplest thing in the world to ask.

Yuuri’s mouth drops open. “I… not really?”

Kathy shrugs. “I’ve seen your medical files. I know you had a diagnosis three years ago, and that you haven’t been seeing a psychologist or psychiatrist with any regularity for the last two years. You only had the one prescription three years ago, and since there’s no evidence that you had it refilled, you’d’ve long since run out. Even if you still had them lying around, the original dosages would be expired. Most athletes I know are super conscientious about medications, so I’m assuming you’d have thrown them away.”

Yuuri looks down at his cup and takes a breath. It’s cold – but he can still smell the familiar and soothing scent. “I tried it, but… the side effects were kind of extreme.”

“Which ones?” So gentle, so quiet –  it could be part of Yuuri’s own thoughts and not the psychiatrist sitting in the swivel chair across the room.

“Lowered blood pressure. Dizziness. I had insomnia before the diagnosis, but the meds made it worse, so I was tired all the time. Double vision.”

Kathy nods thoughtfully. “Ugh. Those are fairly typical, but I can see how you’d want to skip them during competition. And honestly - you’ve made it this far, I assume you’ve got some good coping mechanisms in place. I don’t want to mess with those. But this big of a change in your life, it can be hard to fit old routines into new ones, when the new ones seem so much more important. Sometimes even a temporary boost is all you really need to get past a difficult time. If you get to that point – then I want you to know that I’m here to help.”

Her words are along the lines of what Yuuri thought he’d hear, when he first came up to the office – and it rankles, just as much as he thought it would. “I know. I don’t… I don’t want meds. I know it’s probably stupid, and I know it’s like a diabetic refusing insulin, but… I just don’t.”

“Okay,” says Kathy. “I won’t argue with you. Though I will point out that there’s types of diabetes that don’t require insulin. Just like there’s types of anxiety that don’t require medication.”

Yuuri looks up from his cup, startled. Kathy looks back at him, her cup on her lap, her expression so open and honest and unassuming.

“You don’t… you _don’t_ think I need meds?” blurts out Yuuri, and then flushes. “I mean….”

“Maybe you could benefit from the right dosage of the right med, yeah – but that’s the not the point. You don’t want them. There’s no benefit to me prescribing something you’re going to refuse to take.”

“That… that’s not what I expected you to say,” says Yuuri.

“Did you think I’d tie you to the couch and shove pills down your throat? No, wait, don’t answer that.” Kathy sounds amused as she spins in her chair to set down her mug – and just like that, the mood shifts, from the brief tension of a doctor-patient relationship, to something closer to what Yuuri’s felt before.

Friendship. Almost.

Kathy’s still talking. “Did you like the tea, or do you prefer a different blend? I think I’ve got some matcha powder at home, I can bring that if you want?”

“It’s fine,” Yuuri assures her. “I like sencha leaves better than powder.”

If Kathy doesn’t believe him, she at least has the courtesy not to show it. “Good to know. Thanks for stopping by, Yuuri – I really do appreciate it. I’m on vacation all next week, but I really look forward to seeing you when we get back? Just to talk,” she adds. “Or not talk. Or whatever. Okay?”

She’s so _earnest_ – and almost a little desperate, Yuuri thinks. It’s not even close to the same as the psychiatrist in Detroit, who hadn’t seemed all that interested in Yuuri at all, casually dismissing him with a prescription and nothing more.

But then – Yuuri remembers running into some Japanese tourists in Chicago, his first year in America. He’d been there for a competition, but he’d missed half of practice and incurred Celestino’s wrath because he’d been so happy to find someone who spoke Japanese that he hadn’t wanted to leave them.

Yuuri’s not Canadian or American. His English isn’t as good as if it’d been his first language. Even so… talking to Yuuri is still probably the closest Kathy’s come to a conversation in English in a while.

“Okay,” says Yuuri. It’s as close to a promise to return as he’s likely to give. Judging from Kathy’s bright smile in response, that's exactly how it's received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> **Dō shiyō** (Japanese) - Oh my god, as if to express doubt or panic  
>  **Kuso!** (Japanese) - Shit!


	12. People Victor Forgot to Mention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the irony. I had just decided I was ready to post this chapter this week after delaying for two weeks because I wasn’t happy with the opening… and then someone accidentally snipped a wire somewhere and the entire block lost internet for two days. Argh. I won’t claim posting this was the first thing I did once internet was up and running again… but it’s pretty close.

Three hours into his “tour” of Saint Petersburg, Yuuri begins to succumb to the effects of jet lag, an early morning, and the exhaustion that comes with being almost entirely surrounded by an unfamiliar language. Most everyone seems to know just enough English or Japanese to say “Hello” or “Konnichiwa” – but that’s where their language skills end. Yuuri’s heard both words repeated so many times that they’re starting to lose all meaning, and his scant Russian is of no help.

Neither is Victor.

“Yuuri, look!” says Victor for what seems like the twentieth time. His imitation of excitement is only slightly better than Yuuri’s, who is mostly concentrating on just looking awake. “It’s a church!”

“Wow,” says Yuuri, which has the benefit of crossing all language barriers. The cameras roll, the television producer looks increasingly frantic, and almost as soon as they’ve set up in one location – they’re piled back into the town car and sped off to the next.

There _has_ to be better ways of seeing a new city. Not that Yuuri can think of one – not that Yuuri can really think of anything at all except for trying to catch a few minutes of sleep, his head slumped against Victor’s shoulder in the back of the town car as they race from one tourist destination to the next. It’s at least more comfortable than the forced tourism that Phichit insisted on whenever he and Yuuri would visit a new city in North America. Yuuri’s been on more tour buses in more cities than he can count, and at least three separate Duck Tours.

“Yuuri, look! It’s a palace!”

“Wow!”

At least Saint Petersburg doesn’t have a Duck Tour. That he knows of. Yuuri’s not going to mention it, just in case.

“Yuuri, look! It’s a statue!”

“Wow!”

Yuuri can’t get a good read on Victor – on one hand, he looks as if he’s enjoying himself. On the other hand, he’s clearly distracted. He asks to listen to strangers’ music, switching out their earbuds for his. He scrolls through his Instagram and Twitter feeds. He starts conversations with Yuuri as they race from one monument to another, and then loses track of them after a few minutes.

“Yuuri, look! It’s a park!”

“Wow!”

The city passes by in a blur of colors and architecture, Russian and European in alternate swatches. Yuuri’s not even sure what he’s seeing, just that he’s meant to be having camera-appropriate reactions to it. He knows what he _hasn’t_ seen, at least, and that’s the inside of anything. It’s difficult to express excitement over the exterior of another building, especially when they’re all beginning to look the same.

“Yuuri, look,” breathes Victor, relief and anticipation and joy all rolled up in a Victor-shaped bundle. They’re not even out of the car yet, but already Victor’s hand is on the door, ready to push it open.

Yuuri looks.

“Wow,” he whispers.

The Hermitage is different. The square is expansive and vibrant with tourists; the view of the water is gorgeous and so colorful that it almost hurts Yuuri’s eyes. The production crew insists they go inside for a quick glimpse, which is breath-takingly opulent and maybe just a little bit _too_ close to what Yuuri thinks Victor has in mind for his gold-medal tiled bathroom.

It’s obvious that Victor is, at last, invested in a way he hasn’t been for the entire afternoon.

The only trouble is the very short time they spend inside, because Yuuri hasn’t seen a bathroom in four hours and he’s long since begun to regret the tea he had at lunch. The cold outside doesn’t help the insistent pressure from his bladder.

Nor does the constant argument from the production crew, which has opinions about everything and isn’t afraid to voice them. Yuuri’s not sure what they’re arguing about – maybe the next destination, maybe the weather, maybe something that has nothing to do with anything. He’s long past wondering if visiting Kathy for a second time that day would be too pushy, because all the Russian at top volume is giving him a headache.

It’s also attracting attention. The camera crew might have sparked the interest of other tourists, but most of them either don’t recognize Yuuri or Victor, or they don’t really care. The same can’t be said for the trio of teenagers who have settled in to watch the proceedings, licking at ice cream cones as if the filming is their sole source of entertainment for the day. Yuuri imagines that Yurio would probably fit perfectly with them, all four of them poking fun at the old people trying to look impressed with random buildings.

_I’m only twenty-four, teenagers shouldn’t be able to make me feel this old_ , thinks Yuuri with an inner grumble.

 “So I think it would be _lovely_ if you could tell Yuuri all about the history of the Hermitage while you’re here,” chirps the bouncy television producer. Yuuri can’t remember her name; it’s something extremely Russian and a thousand syllables long. He’d feel worse about forgetting it except that Victor clearly doesn’t remember it either.

 “Okay,” says Victor cheerfully. He turns to Yuuri. “Are the cameras rolling? Oh good. Here we go. Yuuri, this is the Hermitage. You’ll notice there’s quite a few cats here and there. Makkachin was nearly banned from the premises when she was a puppy for almost catching one. Quite the tragic turn of events, as she very much enjoys viewing the art exhibits.” Victor turned to the producer. “How was that, Anna?”

The girl’s smile looks forced. “It’s Nadyezda. You were very… short.”

“So are the cats, Natalia,” says Victor cheerfully.

Victor’s cheer outlasts the Hermitage, luckily. He’s still in a good mood when they reach Nevsky Prospekt, which to Yuuri is exactly like every other beautiful street full of beautiful people found the world over, though perhaps in this case with vaguely more Cyrillic. Every store has its name in English as well, and every store is one that Yuuri can’t even afford to enter, much less make a purchase.

Victor, of course, is in his element as he ducks into one store after the other.

“You need a better coat,” decides Victor. Yuuri hasn’t seen Nadyezda or the camera crew in at least fifteen minutes. Either they’ve succeeded in losing them, or Nadyezda is being sneakier at getting footage than Yuuri thought.

“I need a SIM card,” Yuuri reminds Victor.

“Not here,” says Victor. “Ah, here we go – no arguing, Yuuri, it can be your New Year’s present.”

Yuuri takes one look at the name above the door and balks. Victor still manages to drag him inside.

Yuuri doesn’t want to protest the coat they eventually purchase. He likes it entirely too much.  It’s long and far too warm for inside the store, a sure sign that it’ll be perfect once they leave. The exterior pockets are deep and roomy, there’s interior pockets with buttons, the collar stands stiffly up around his neck and makes him feel safe. The model is green, and there’s a brown plaid that Yuuri knows Victor likes on him, but Yuuri’s drawn to a deep blue version so dark it could be black.

It’s such a relief to finally be able to stop shivering that Yuuri isn’t even going to argue about the price – which he knows has to be more than the rest of the items in his wardrobe _combined._ Despite a few moments of frantic looking, Yuuri can’t see a price tag on _any_ garment in the store.

“Vitya,” he says, his voice is muffled through the layers of wool. “I can’t let you spend this much on me.”

Victor steps up so close, Yuuri has to back up into the mirror. Even then, Victor rests his full weight onto Yuuri, who starts glancing worriedly at the windows and the other people in the store, wondering who can see. Luckily, they’re all averting their eyes and pretending Victor and Yuuri don’t exist, which is cold comfort.

Victor, on the other hand, is warm. Very warm, and his breath is soft on the skin under Yuuri’s ear.

“Yuuuri,” he whispers, drawing Yuuri’s name into a purr. “I’m the reason you need the coat – so it’s my responsibility to make sure you have a good one.”

“ _Vitya_ ,” whispers Yuuri, because Victor’s breath _right there_ is always too much.

“It’ll be _our_ money when we’re married anyway,” continues Victor. Yuuri’s knees turn to water.

There’s tug on Yuuri’s sleeve, accompanied by a popping sound.

“Oh, dear, we ripped the tag!” says Victor cheerfully, waving the torn tag in his hand. “I guess that means we’ll take it.”

“This isn’t over!” Yuuri tells Victor, trying to be furious as Victor hands over his credit card. “I’m going to pay you back.”

Victor has a thoughtful look. “You already owe me five World Championships. I suppose the coat is worth a gold at the Four Continents.”

“I owe you five _gold medals_ , and Four Continents counts toward that.”

The bell on the door rings merrily; Yuuri glances over to see Nadyezda step inside, her eyes bright with victory.

“Oh!” she cries. “But you bought it already, we could have filmed that.”

“Yes, shame,” says Victor, signing his name quickly with a flourish. “Next time.”

“Although,” muses Nadyezda, eyeing the fur hats in the corner of the store.

“No,” says Victor firmly.

“Yes,” says Nadyezda, eyes glinting.

“Huh?” says Yuuri, glancing up. He barely has a look at the silky, stiff Russian fur hat in her hands before Victor grabs Yuuri and pulls him out of the store. Nadyezda might be calling out her disappointment, but Yuuri can’t hear it through the closed door.

“Yuuri, do you remember the nuts in Barcelona? I think I saw the same store down the street, let’s go!”

The door flies open and Nadyezda stumbles out, tripping over cables as she scrambles to catch up. “Wait!”

“We’ll meet you there!” calls Victor. He pulls on Yuuri’s hand harder. It’s trickier than Yuuri would have thought, running in a long coat. They nearly fall over a baby in a pram, a businessman on his cell phone, a set of teenagers sharing a photo one’s just taken on his phone.

“ _Victor_!” gasps Yuuri, in between shooting out apologies to the people they’ve nearly killed, “That was _rude!_ ”

“So was forcing you to buy a ushanka for entertainment value. We won’t lose them, I just wanted to talk without the camera crew overhearing,” says Victor, slowing the pace a little. “They can take video of us from behind for a while. What did you think of Katya?”

“Katya – oh, you mean Kathy, the psychiatrist? She’s nice, I guess.”

“Are you going to see her again?” presses Victor.

_Not your business_ , is Yuuri’s immediate reaction – but he doesn’t say it.

_Except – it sort of is your business as my coach_. _I didn’t even think. If you were just my fiancé, Kathy wouldn’t be able to divulge any of what we talk about to you. But as my coach – you’re at least supposed to know if she prescribes me any medications, or if she’s recommending certain coping techniques._

“Yuuri?” prompts Victor when Yuuri doesn’t respond immediately.

“Sorry,” says Yuuri sheepishly. “She’s off next week. I think I’ll go again when she’s back. We didn’t really talk about anything. We just compared stories about living in America.”

Victor grins and squeezes Yuuri’s hand. “You made a _friend_.”

“Vitya!” groans Yuuri. “She’s not a _friend_. She’s a _psychiatrist_.”

“I don’t see how the two are mutually exclusive. I’m your coach, and I’m also your lover.”

“There’s a lot of people who would say it’s a conflict of interest.”

“How so?” demands Victor. “As your coach, I want you to do your best. I want the same as your lover. Except naked.”

Yuuri swears every single person near them understands English and turns to look at them. He blushes bright red. “ _Vitya_.”

“We can invite her to the party,” continues Victor.

“What party?”

“To welcome you to Saint Petersburg! I thought maybe after the Four Continents?”

“I’ll have been here almost two months by then,” Yuuri reminds him. “A little late for a welcome party.”

“Valentine’s Day, then,” says Victor, his tone growing a bit testy, but he puts his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders anyway and draws him closer. “Just a few friends for dinner. I always hosted dinners, it’s good to fill up the apartment with friends once in a while so you can appreciate the quiet afterwards.”

It sounds reasonable enough – and certainly Yuuri remembers how much he enjoyed quietly hanging out with Phichit the day after a frat party in Detroit. Though to be fair, most of the time they’d both been nursing hangovers.

“Who would you want to invite?” asks Yuuri.

“Oh, Yura and Mila and Georgi. Yakov, but he probably wouldn’t come. Ivan and Daria and Yulia and—”

Victor continues naming people. Yuuri’s not even sure he’s _met_ some of them. There’s probably more people named than can comfortably fit around Victor’s dining room table.

_He knows so many people – and everyone we’ve met loves him. He didn’t seem lonely in Hasetsu though, when it was only us. I keep forgetting, he’s much more of an extrovert than I am._

“Can you fit that many people around your table?” asks Yuuri, trying for humor.

Victor laughs. “Well. There’s a lot of people I want you to meet.”

_Oh_.

“Victor,” says Yuuri slowly. Victor’s hand tightens in his, and Yuuri realizes it’s probably a reaction to _Victor_ and not _Vitya_. “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t have to meet everyone all at once.”

Victor stops walking and turns Yuuri so they’re facing each other. The crowds of people swerve around them, as if they’re the stationary island in a swirling river.

“I know, but – you’re _here_ now,” says Victor. “And I want everyone to know it.”

“I think they know it,” Yuuri assures him, glancing back at the film crew that is slowly creeping up on them. Other pedestrians glance at them with smiles and recognition in their eyes as they walk past. It’s strange, knowing that he’s visible to every other person on the street. But even being Japanese – he’d expected to be at least a _little_ invisible.

It’ll never happen. Not in Saint Petersburg, not with Victor at his side. He’ll always stick out like a sore thumb; he’ll always have people looking at him as if they know him. He’s not going to be anonymous ever again, and he’s never, _ever_ going to be invisible. No matter how much he’d like to be.

_He can introduce me to all his friends, wedge me into his training schedule, stick me in a designer coat and let Nadyezda put a fur hat on my head. None of that is going to make me fit perfectly_ , thinks Yuuri.

“Then why the argument?” says Victor, clearly still thinking about a dinner party. “Maybe for Maslenitsa?”

Yuuri doesn’t know what that is, but it sounds important enough. And if this is what makes Victor happy… then that’s all Yuuri’s ever wanted.

_I can’t let him regret bringing me here. A party isn’t so much to ask._

“You don’t have to wait. There’s a whole month before Europeans.”

Victor’s arms are warm; he leans over until Yuuri can feel Victor’s breath on his cheeks. Yuuri can’t see the smile, but he can tell it’s there anyway.

“I know,” says Victor softly. “But I don’t want to have people in our home just yet. For now, I want you all to myself.”

Victor’s nose is cold when it touches Yuuri’s, even if his breath is warm.

“Oh,” says Yuuri, a little bit breathless.

The warmth he feels in his chest is a thousand times better than the coat on his back.

“Okay?” asks Victor in a whisper.

“Okay,” agrees Yuuri, unable to stop grinning.

There’s a camera crew somewhere behind them, probably filming the kiss. Yuuri doesn’t care.

*

The problem with having spent the afternoon racing around Saint Petersburg in the back of a town car while also trying to fend off Victor’s amorous advances _and_ battling jet lag is that by the time the afternoon free skate is over, Yuuri is completely wired.

“I should be exhausted,” he says to Mila as they unlace their skates. “And I’m _not_. I feel like I could skate another hour or two.”

“So stay and skate,” says Mila with a shrug. “I’m sure Vitya won’t mind.”

Yuuri glances out at the ice. “He wouldn’t,” he agrees, “but Yakov might. If I’m here, Victor’s only going to be distracted and end up trying to coach me instead of working on his own jumps.”

_At least, that’s how today’s practice sessions went. And it’s worse if any of the other coaches comes over to talk to me – no matter what Victor’s doing, he’s over in a heartbeat, smiling and pretending like he doesn’t mind. If I stay, Yakov might try to drown me in the river – and I’m not sure I’d even blame him!_

“Then come have dinner with me and Yura,” says Mila.

There’s a crash from the highest bleacher where Yurio sits. “What?! _No_!”

“He’s going to leave us for an entire week, he’d love a chance to say goodbye before he has to catch his train,” continues Mila.

“No, I wouldn’t!”

“If there’s time, we could go across the street and see the dormitories. I’m sure Vitya didn’t take you there, and I know which room was his, if you want to see it afterwards.”

“ _Mila, you fucking hag – that’s MY room! Don’t you fucking put me on a train and then take Katsudon to MY ROOM…!_ ”

Georgi leans back, smacks Yurio upside the head, and goes back to cleaning the ice from his blades.

“Have you ever considered a swear jar?” Yuuri asks Mila. “We had one in Detroit. Paid for a pizza party at the end of the year.”

“Ooh,” says Mila. “I like that. Yura, what do you think? Do you have enough pocket money to pay for a pizza party?”

“No!”

“Wonderful! We’ll implement it as soon as I find a jar,” says Mila.

“ _Aargggh!_ ”

Yakov’s voice carries over the ice. The fact that he shouts in English is clearly for Yuuri’s benefit. “ _Anyone who is not Victor Nikiforov needs to leave this rink or you will be doing power pulls until I lock it up_.”

“Dinner first, then the jar,” says Mila as she hops off the bench. “Vitechka!”

_Vitechka?_ thinks Yuuri.

“I’m stealing your man while you skate,” Mila shouts across the ice. “I promise to return him in nearly perfect condition before you go home tonight!”

Victor shouts something back in Russian, and Mila laughs.

“What’d he say?” Yuuri asks Mila.

“You don’t want to know,” says Georgi, following them out.

*

Yuuri stares in amazement when he sees the nutritionist remove half the plates they all put on their trays, just as she’s done the last two times he’s eaten in the cafeteria.

“Does she always do that?” Yuuri asks Mila as they sit down.

“It’s a game,” says Mila. “We put things on the trays, she takes them off. Sometimes she lets you keep something you like. She let Yura keep a slice of chocolate cake once.”

“It was my birthday,” says Yurio with a shrug.

“She let me keep the rice,” says Yuuri, looking at the slightly shining mound of rice on his plate. He’s sure rice isn’t meant to be that shiny – but just then, he doesn’t care. It’s the first time he’s even seen it offered; there’s no way he was going to pass up the chance to eat it.

“She likes you,” says Mila.

“She likes _Victor_ ,” Yurio corrects her. He goes back to glowering at them for about ten minutes before Mila’s funny stories win out and he’s giggling just as hard as Yuuri is.

Georgi ignores all of them despite having sat next to them. Yuuri finds he doesn’t mind Georgi’s silent presence so much. At least it’s obvious that his brooding isn’t directed at Yuuri alone.

It’s not until Mila goes to fetch some more water than Georgi speaks again. “Vitya wants to skate at the Europeans?”

It’s such a shock to hear Georgi actually ask him a question, Yuuri’s not sure he can answer. Not to mention how odd it is to hear Georgi refer to Victor as _Vitya_.

_I didn’t realize how prevalent nicknames are,_ thinks Yuuri. _And here I thought it was a name just for us._

“Um – yes? That’s the plan, anyway.”

“Hmm,” says Georgi.

“Idiot,” mutters Yurio, stabbing the carrots with his fork. “Does he even have programs yet?”

“I’ve seen his short program,” says Yuuri quietly. “It’s good. _Really_ good.”

“Biased,” snorts Yurio. Yuuri knows better than to argue with him.

“But a free skate?” presses Georgi.

Yuuri looks down at his plate. “No. Not yet.”

“Idiot,” repeats Yurio, fervently. The carrots are piles of mush under his fork. “Alexei’s having fucking _kittens_.”

“Who?” asks Yuuri.

Georgi reaches over and plucks the fork out of Yurio’s hand. “Alexei Starikov,” he says calmly. “Bronze medal winner at Nationals. There are three berths for Men’s single skaters at Europeans. If the FFKKR changes its mind and Vitya goes – Alexei does not.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, a little lamely.

_ If _ _he goes… but the way Victor talks, it’s as if Europeans are a sure thing._

_Aren’t they?_

“Have you finished packing?” Mila asks Yurio as they return their trays and emptied dishes.

Yurio rolls his eyes. “ _Da, Mama_. I left my bag in Yakov’s office this afternoon.”

“You packed enough underwear?”

“ _Da!_ Leave me alone!”

“He forgot underwear last year,” Mila tells Yuuri, who’s torn between laughing and squirming in sympathy.

“I hate you all,” Yurio informs them. “Go away, I have a train to catch.”

“Oh, Yurotchka, my sweet little Yurotchka!” says Mila dramatically. She pulls Yurio into her arms, despite the way he starts flailing and fighting. “I’m going to miss you _so much_. Yuuri, I’m worried about him. We should take him to the station, make sure he doesn’t get on a train going to Siberia by mistake.”

“I HATE YOU, LET ME GO!”

“He does seem that upset,” agrees Yuuri, starting to get an idea of Mila’s flagrant use of nicknames.

Yurio lets out a primal scream, manages to break Mila’s grip, and stomps towards Yakov’s office while Mila giggles and waves. When Yurio glances back at them Yuuri lifts his own hand for a wave, breaking into a grin when Yurio yells something incomprehensible and disappears through the doors.

Mila grabs Yuuri by the hand. “Come, let’s get our coats. I have something to show you.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, and follows. “We aren’t really going to follow him to the station, are we?”

“Of course not. Yura flew all the way to Japan last year by himself. He’s perfectly capable of getting to Moscow on his own. Get your coat and meet me here, _da_?”

“ _Da_ ,” says Yuuri.

The locker room is quiet, except for the faint sounds of music coming from the double door leading into the rink. Yuuri thinks he can hear the _thunk_ of Victor’s skates hitting the ice and Yakov shouting something incomprehensibly Russian in response. Yuuri stares at the doors for a long moment; it’s enormously tempting to look through the window and see if he can get a glimpse of Victor on the ice.

Mila’s waiting, though. Yuuri knows that the minute he looks through the window, he’ll be tempted to go inside.

Instead, he grabs his new coat, as well as his scarf and gloves and hat, and goes out to join Mila in the hall. She’s just stepping out of the ladies’ locker room; in addition to her heavy coat and hat, she’s got a bag slung around her shoulders. Mila grins at Yuuri’s coat.

“I like it!”

Yuuri tries not to blush. “It’s not too long?”

“You look wonderful,” she assures him, grabbing him by the hand. “Come on!”

Mila leads him up one of the stairwells. By the time they reach the top, Yuuri’s overheated in his coat. The cold blast of air when Mila pushes open the emergency door to the roof is a relief for only a second. The sharp cold of a December night in Saint Petersburg chills Yuuri’s nose and ears almost instantly. There’s a patchwork of grey clouds blocking some of the stars overhead, but the moon shines brightly enough to see by.

Mila crosses the roof, crunching over the gravel, until she reaches the front of the building. She leans over, a smile on her face, fringes of her hair whipping around her hat in the wind.

“Yura!” she shouts as she waves wildly. “Yura! _Do svidaniya!_ ”

Yuuri leans over the edge of the building. They’re four stories up, but he can clearly see Yuri below them with a backpack slung over one shoulder, dragging a rolling suitcase behind him.

“I don’t think he hears you,” says Yuuri.

“Of course not,” says Mila cheerfully. She reaches into the bag slung around her shoulder and hands him something long and tubular.

Yuuri stares at the tubes. There’s a hole on one end and something that resembles the handle of a gun on the other – but they’re far too plastic and light to be actual guns. “Mila—?”

“These should work,” says Mila cheerfully, aims, and fires.

About half a dozen brightly colored ribbons, at least a meter long apiece, shoot out of the tubes and into the air. The wind is vicious – but the ends of the ribbons seem to be weighted enough that they flutter down around Yurio, who stops as he’s about to get into the waiting car and looks around in confusion.

“Go on,” says Mila. She fires again.

It’s ridiculous, it’s probably illegal, and it’s definitely going to piss Yurio off.

Yuuri grins, aims, and fires.

The air is full of ribbons. Mila and Yuuri are laughing so hard that Yuuri’s sure Yurio can hear the laughter, even if he can’t hear their voices.

When the guns are finally empty – it’s not long – Mila and Yuuri both lean over the edge again, waving their arms and shouting.

“Goodbye! _Do svidaniya! Sayonara!_ ”

Even from their height, Yuuri can see Yurio’s glare. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts back up to them.

“YOU’RE BOTH IDIOTS! IF YOU CATCH PNEUMONIA AND DIE IT’S NOT MY FAULT.”

Mila blows him a kiss, and Yurio waves at them both before climbing into the car and slamming the door behind him.

Mila turns and sits next to the low wall. “Last year, I used water balloons. This was much better.”

The idea of water balloons in winter is alarming. “Water balloons?!? Was that a good idea?”

She laughs. “Oh, I dyed the water so no one would slip on the ice.”

There’s a creak as the door opens again and another girl pokes her head out. Her face brightens as she sees Mila. “Mila! _Vot ty gde! Ya tebya obyskalas._ ”

“ _Privet_ , Olga!” says Mila brightly.

Yuuri’s forgotten as they both start talking rapidly in Russian, laughing and giggling in the cold night air. He doesn’t mind very much. He leans on his elbows on the low wall and looks out over Saint Petersburg. The wind is freezing – but the view is lovely. For the first time in two days, he’s awake enough to enjoy it.

Yuuri’s not entirely sure of the city’s layout and he isn’t familiar enough with the skyline to be able to discern which church is which, apart from the golden dome of Isaakievsky. He knows Victor’s apartment is somewhere off to the right, but not which building. But he can easily pick out the dark blankness of the river that glides past the building and the patches scattered in between the buildings that might be trees or parks. Streetlights shine like golden stars in the darkness, interspersed with the bright colors of shop signs and traffic lights.

It's nothing like Hasetsu or Detroit. It’s foreign and inviting and strange and beautiful. Yuuri wants to learn the name of every building, try to figure out where all the things he saw that afternoon are located, try to learn half a dozen ways to jog from Victor’s apartment to the skating complex – but for a very brief moment, he’s alone and lost, without anything to tether him safely to the familiar ground.

The burst of girlish laughter brings him back to the rooftop. Mila and Olga, laughing and joking together in Russian, completely incomprehensible and unconcerned that he’s overhearing every word. Trusting that he either doesn’t understand, or that if he does, he’ll be discreet.

_I thought everyone in Russia hated me_ , thinks Yuuri, still looking out over Saint Petersburg. _I thought they’d believe I stole Victor from them. But nearly everyone I’ve met has been friendly and kind and helpful. They don’t seem to resent me for taking Victor away – they’re just grateful that he’s returned._

_The first year in Detroit, I was miserable. I don’t want to be miserable here. Never mind that Victor would blame himself – it’d end up destroying both our seasons._

_No. It’s going to be great. That’s what Phichit always says about everything: it’ll be great, and then it is. If thinking positively works for Phichit, maybe it can work for me, too._

Mila and Olga laugh behind him, still giggling in Russian. The collar on his new coat is high, but his ears are freezing. When he tries to pull his scarf up to cover them, he only manages to knock the hat from his head.

“Sorry,” he says automatically, reaching between the girls for it. Mila hands it up to him with an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, we cut you out of the conversation.”

“It’s all right,” Yuuri assures her. “I should probably go downstairs. I don’t want Victor to forget I’m here.”

“No chance of that,” says Olga, rolling her eyes. She’s maybe a year younger than Mila; Yuuri doesn’t recognize her, but he doesn’t know any of the ladies’ singles skaters very well. Her English is so heavily accented that it’s difficult to understand her, especially with the wind pulling the words away from them. “He might have forgotten Alexei, but he won’t have forgotten you.”

_Alexei – the other skater who was supposed to go to Europeans._ It’s all Yuuri can do not to wince.

“I haven’t met Alexei,” says Yuuri.

Olga shrugs. “He’s keeping his head down. Better to skate one’s insecurities than take them out on others. But yes, it’s cold up here. Let’s go back in.”

“I love the stars, though,” says Mila a bit dreamily, looking up.

“Look at them in summer,” says Olga, entirely unsympathetic, and she pulls her friend to her feet.

*

“So where were you?” asks Victor when Yuuri meets him outside the complex at the top of the steps. Pavel is already waiting by the car at the bottom. Victor’s face is flushed and happy. Yuuri’s heart swells to see it.

_He must have done well tonight – I wonder if he landed another quad? No, he’d have said right away._

“On the roof, saying goodbye to Yurio. Mila showed me the dormitories after.”

Victor laughs and takes his hand. There’s still some ribbons along the side of the steps, but Victor doesn’t notice them. “Did she show you my room?”

“We tried, but it’s locked. I guess Yurio’s in there now.”

Yuuri was almost glad about the locked door – even the common areas of the dormitories had seemed Spartan and grey, without any sign of life or creature comfort. He doesn’t much want to think about Victor living there from the age of twelve, thrown in with dozens of other children away from their families while they trained to become either world champion athletes or… nothing at all.

How would it feel to be one of the children who put their entire lives on hold – give up their families and homes and childhoods – only to never quite measure up?

Not that Yuuri has to think about the answer very hard. But he’d been eighteen when he’d left home for Detroit – not twelve.

_At least I had a childhood. I’m not sure Vitya and Yurio did._

“I should tell him about the loose floorboard,” muses Victor. He opens the car door and taps his fingers against the roof. “I wonder if they’re still in there?”

“What?”

“Oh, just some old magazines,” says Victor carelessly. Yuuri rolls his eyes as he climbs into the car. “I’m sure they’re long since gone.”

“I’m a little afraid to ask what kinds of magazines,” says Yuuri. The car sets off the moment Yuuri closes the door, rumbling along the gravel path.

Victor attempts to look innocent. He’s terrible at it. “Skating magazines, of course! All very respectable.”

“And you read them only for the articles, I’m sure,” says Yuuri.

“Is there another reason to read skating magazines?” asks Victor, so honest and earnest that Yuuri groans.

There’s a bump as the car pulls off the gravel and onto smooth pavement, easing into the evening traffic with practiced care. Victor pulls out his cell phone and begins scrolling through his messages. Yuuri can see a dozen or so Instagram notifications popping up already.

  _I wonder what he posted…_

 “I hope Mila didn’t fill your head with stories about me,” says Victor cheerfully.

“Not entirely.” Yuuri pauses for a moment. “Georgi mentioned another skater, Alexei. I guess he skates for a different coach?”

“Mmm,” says Victor, focusing on his phone. “Yes. He’s good. Third at Nationals.”

Yuuri isn’t sure why he’s still talking – but the words flow out anyway. “He was supposed to go to Europeans. Alexei.”

“He’ll go next year,” says Victor shortly. “I’m going to Europeans.”

“Right,” says Yuuri softly. The car falls silent and tense for a moment. “Do you mind that I stuck around tonight?”

“Of course not. We can pick something up to eat on the way home, if you like.”

“Oh – I ate already,” says Yuuri, sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

Victor shrugs and rests his head on the back of the seat. “It’s all right. I’m not very hungry, and I’m sure Marina left us something.”

Yuuri frowns. “How often does she come?”

“Every day during the season to walk Makkachin in the morning while Irochka’s at school.” Victor hums under his breath, briefly annoyed. “I forgot; I should have left her a shopping list. I always forget and then I end up eating stale crackers for breakfast.”

“It’s all right, I can do the shopping on my way home.”

“You don’t have to, _solnyshko_.”

“I should,” insists Yuuri. “I like shopping, it’s fun to see what foreign grocery stores have. Anyway, I have to do my part, it’s not like you’re letting me pay rent—”

“I don’t have rent, I own the apartment,” says Victor. Yuuri catches the thinnest trace of irritation. He settles back in his seat, looking out the window as the city rushes by.

“Right. You told me,” he says, apologetic.

It’s quiet for a moment – and then Victor reaches and takes Yuuri’s hand. His gloves are still warm in Yuuri’s fingers.

“I’m sorry. I want to show you Saint Petersburg properly. Not like today.”

“It’s okay.” Yuuri rests his head on the seat, matching Victor. He curls his fingers around Victor’s hand. “At least now I know what’s out there to see. There’ll be time to see it all better later.”

“Much later. The real training begins after New Year’s,” says Victor. He sounds as if he’s even looking forward to “real training.” Yuuri remembers Victor’s restlessness that afternoon and the relieved sigh when they’d finally returned to practice. He thinks he knows why.

“I didn’t ask – any music this afternoon that you liked?” Yuuri is beginning to think Victor “borrows” people’s iPods mostly to assuage his curiosity about what people have on their playlists. The oddest combination that afternoon had been the boy with the shaved head and piercings who had been listening to Enya.

“No. I’m beginning to think I should just skate to silence,” says Victor dryly. “That would surprise everyone, don’t you think? Or… I know. You could record yourself saying _I love you_ in as many languages as we can find, and we’ll put it on a loop. I like that idea, I’ll discuss it with Sergei.”

Yuuri laughs. “I don’t think the ISU is going to accept either of those as a musical selection.”

“Bah, who asked them?”

“We can’t skate _Stammi_ as a duet if you’re not competing,” Yuuri reminds him. “Unless you want to pay another fine?”

“Worth it,” says Victor, right before he closes his eyes. “Just a short nap, I want to ravish you as soon as we get home.”

Yuuri’s stomach twists pleasantly. “Um. Thank you for the warning?”

“Mmm.”

True to his word, Victor closes his eyes for the rest of the short drive home. Yuuri’s not going to begrudge him. Victor’s tired – there are dark circles forming under Victor’s eyes already, and he’s sure he heard Victor sigh with relief when he sat down.

_You’re pushing yourself, I know it. I wish you didn’t feel as though you had to push so hard. Is it really that important to go to Europeans, when we’re both locked into Worlds?_

_Well. I guess you’re not a lock. But I can’t imagine that Russia wouldn’t send you, even if you don’t land a quad flip in two more weeks. Worlds is still three months away. That’s plenty of time. I know you can do it, in three months. Why are you trying so hard to be ready in three weeks?_

Yuuri’s beginning to think about a nap himself as Pavel pulls the car in front of their apartment. Yuuri touches Victor’s cheek. “Hey,” he says softly, “we’re home.”

“Mmm.” Victor opens his eyes, yawns, and smiles sleepily. “I like hearing you say that.”

They’re nearly to the front door when the man steps out of the shadows, a lit cigarette in between his fingers.

“Ah, Vitya, there you are – and I was beginning to think you were skating all the way through the night again.”

Victor stops mid-step; Yuuri nearly runs into him.

“Or perhaps you are trying to avoid me,” continues the man as he steps more fully into the light. The man is tall and sturdily built. It’s hard to see his features in the dim light of the sidewalk, but his face is pleasant enough, with heavy eyebrows and salt-and-pepper hair. He can’t be much more than ten years older than Victor, even with the lines on his face and the dark shadows under his eyes. His coat isn’t designer like Victor’s, but it’s clearly well-made and fits him well, in a timeless sort of fashion that makes Yuuri think they’ve either stepped into an old spy film, or they’re about to receive an indecent proposition.

“Sergei,” says Victor. Yuuri glances at Victor, curious and somewhat startled. Every person they’ve met since their arrival in Saint Petersburg has been greeted with pleasure, but Victor’s voice indicates that he’s anything but pleased to see Sergei now. His tone is flat, cautious, and instantly protective, and there’s nothing of the easy-going, overly friendly man that Yuuri loves.

Victor’s caution instantly puts Yuuri on guard. He looks back at the stranger, wondering who could possibly elicit that sort of response.

“And this is your Yuuri! He’s a handsome one, Vitya. I can almost forgive you for him not being Russian. Or female.”

Yuuri opens his mouth, shuts it, and then opens it again. “Um…”

“Sergei.” Victor’s voice is a quiet warning.

_Wait_ , thinks Yuuri. _I know that name..._

“Your composer,” blurts out Yuuri.

Sergei doesn’t seem that impressed; he flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette and sighs. “Is that all I am to you, Vit’enka? I’m hurt. I may never get over the pain of it.”

The sarcasm is so familiar – as if he’s making more of a show of being insulted than is the case – that Yuuri wonders how he didn’t see it before: the shape of his nose, the fall of his hair, the point of his chin.

“Yuuri,” begins Victor, sounding pained.

Yuuri doesn’t let him finish. “Your _brother_ ,” he breathes, leaning closer to Sergei out of curiosity. “I knew you had one, but I could never find his name printed anywhere—”

“Coattails are very difficult as modes of transportation,” says Sergei dryly.

Victor flushes. “Well, this has been very enlightening for everyone, but Makkachin needs a walk and Sergei not particularly fond of her, so I think we’ll just call it a night—”

“But Vit’enka,” chides Sergei. “I have your music!”

Victor sucks in a breath and lets it out in a thin stream. He looks up at the sky, as if asking for patience.

“They’re holding a table for us at Duo,” says Sergei, in a sing-song manner that’s clearly meant to entice Victor to go with him. “We can have something to eat, something to drink—”

Victor’s sigh is strange. “Sergei.”

It’s akin to torture: on one hand, the chance to sit down with Victor’s mysterious brother – who apparently also doubles as Victor’s composer and _how the hell did Yuuri never realize that?!?!?_ – is almost too much to ignore.

On the other… it’s clear Victor doesn’t want anything to do with him. And the curiosity about _that_ is almost as bad.

“Well, if you’d rather not,” says Sergei, so flippant that Yuuri’s struck again with how similar the brothers are. “I do have to call Zhenya tonight. She’ll be most interested in how anxious you were to keep Yuuri to yourself. But of course you’ve called her already since returning to Saint Petersburg, haven’t you?”

Yuuri’s eyes widen – because _this_ name, he knows. Next to him, Victor’s mouth twists. Yuuri can nearly hear his teeth grinding together.

“Fine. We’ll go,” he grits out, sounding as if he’d much rather throw Yuuri over his shoulder, carry him up to the apartment, and bar the door. “I’ll text Irochka to take Makkachin out again.”

Sergei’s smile is wide and bright – and to Yuuri’s complete non-surprise, heart-shaped. “They won’t hold the table forever, let’s go.”

It’s a short walk to the restaurant; Victor and Sergei spend most of it talking in Russian, which suits Yuuri just fine, because it gives Yuuri a good chance to look at the pair of them, walking just ahead. If it hadn’t already been apparent that Sergei and Victor were brothers, it’s obvious when watching their silhouettes.

Victor and Sergei are the same height. They have the same walk, gesture with their arms in the same way, and when they stop to wait for traffic to pass, they both rock back and forth onto their toes.

_But how did I not know Sergei’s name?_ wonders Yuuri. _For being Victor’s number one fan, that’s a pretty serious omission. It’s definitely not on his Wikipedia page – and unless it was buried in some tiny post in the forums, I’ve never seen it. There’s thousands of threads comparing Victor to Zhenya – but no one ever bothers to talk about his brother! Who apparently composes and arranges his music for him!_

_I wonder which of them is responsible for keeping Sergei’s identity secret?_

_And why?_

*

Of all the places Victor is glad to see upon his return, the restaurant on the nearby street is near the top of the list. Not that he’s ever had fears that it’ll disappear – with over a hundred reviews on Yelp and his photo among other celebrity photos on the wall, Duo has turned into one of those restaurants that is considered a permanent part of the Saint Petersburg landscape. It’s not fancy, the food is reasonably priced and tasty, and often it’s so busy in the late evenings that even Victor himself can’t find a place to sit.

It’s too cold to eat in the garden out back, where empty tables and flower boxes fill the small patio, but in the summer, it’s Victor’s favorite place to sit with Makkachin at his feet. For now, the indoor dining room is only half full, and it’s warm and cozy with the lights lowered for privacy. The waiters are overjoyed to see Victor come in, and if they ignore the dark cloud that seems to be hanging around his head – well, they know Sergei nearly as well, and can guess the reason why Victor’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He shakes their hands, introduces Yuuri, and it’s hard to hold back the chuckle when Yuuri stammers as they try to greet him in Google-accented Japanese.

Everyone loves Yuuri, almost instantly. Every time someone greets him warmly, it’s confirmation that returning to Saint Petersburg was a good choice.

It’s also a good kick in the pants to Sergei, and right now, Victor’s not sure which gives him more satisfaction.

Victor’s counting himself as lucky that his regular indoor table is available. It’s close enough to the windows to allow a good vantage of the street, but far back enough that he’s not immediately in sight of people passing by. Best of all – the table is already pre-set for two people, same as it always is – except tonight, the waitstaff won’t immediately clear the extra setting, since Yuuri’s with him. Victor has a surge of warmth in his chest: _this_ is the best reason of all to bring Yuuri back to Saint Petersburg.

_Yuuri shared his entire life with me in Hasetsu. Now it’s my turn to share my life with him._

Victor reaches out and grabs Yuuri’s hand, just as the waitstaff swarms through, leaving behind open bottles of still water and vodka, a basket of warm brown bread, and tiny tubs of creamy butter with flakes of salt sprinkled on top.

They also leave something else: a third place-setting.

_Oh. Right. Sergei._

For a moment, Victor regrets not just grabbing Yuuri by the hand and going upstairs when Sergei popped out of the bushes. It isn’t as if Sergei would _follow_ them. It’s been years since Sergei has willingly been in the same room as Makkachin. Victor can’t even remember the last time it happened – for all he knows, it was back when their parents were still alive and Makkachin lived with them.

“So,” says Yuuri as they sit down. He has the determined tone that says, _Well, I’m going to be brave about this even if the two of you are total dicks._ “You’re Victor’s mysterious brother.”

“Hardly mysterious,” says Sergei, pouring out the vodka. He doesn’t bother to ask if either of them want any, but then, Victor knows their answer wouldn’t stop him. “I’ve been around longer than he has.”

“You’re not on his Wikipedia page,” says Yuuri. The blush on his cheeks is cute when he adds, “Not that I check it regularly or anything.”

“Sergei uses a different surname professionally,” says Victor. “And Zhenya is very good at tracking edits to the page.”

“I was hoping to make my own name, outside the family legacy,” explains Sergei. “But one cannot escape fate for long.”

“You compose his music?”

“And arrange what already exists, when he asks.”

“I always ask,” says Victor shortly.

“And I always compose for you,” says Sergei. “I have never refused. I never will.” He glances at Yuuri. “If you do marry him, I’ll compose for you.”

Victor’s blood rankles at the implication that Yuuri might _not_ marry him. His hand clenches on the table, and he’s about to retort something when Yuuri speaks.

“Thanks. That’s nice of you to offer.” There’s a nudge against Victor’s leg – Yuuri, pressing his leg close to him. Victor unclenches his hand, suddenly aware of how closely Yuuri is watching him.

“It’s no bother. We will be family, _da_? Family sticks together.” Sergei lifts his glass up in a toast; Victor grudgingly does the same. Yuuri, after a quick glance, follows suit. “A toast, Yuuri – do you know how Russians toast?”

“Um, no, not really?”

“Then I shall demonstrate. I want to talk about my brother and how much I love him. When I was ten years old, our parents gifted me with a baby brother. He has been behind me ever since, a constant reminder of what it is to be good and honest and true. He has shown me how to meet life head-on and with all optimism, and in return all his dreams are given to him as easily as one hands candy to a baby. Russian winters are cold, but my love for my brother keeps me warm. There is one central truth that I have come to accept when nothing else is clear: family will take care of each other, even when the State does not. Family is what binds us together, when time and distance are what drives us apart. Family is the cornerstone of our lives, and to forget family”—Sergei gave Victor an extremely pointed look that would have made him squirm in his seat if he hadn’t been so tense—“is to forget ourselves.”

Sergei lifted his glass into the air, still looking pointedly at Victor. “To family! _Za vstrechu_!”

“ _Za vstrechu_ ,” Victor bites out. They clink the glasses; Victor takes a sip of the vodka, but Sergei downs his in a single gulp before he reaches for the bottle.

“Yuuri, you have family, _da_?” says Sergei as he pours out the vodka again.

“Yeah,” says Yuuri. The vodka is good – Sergei’s not one for the cheap stuff – and Yuuri sounds as if he’s a bit breathless just from the one sip. “My parents and a sister. There’s some cousins and aunts and uncles, and my grandmother, but most of them live in Kyushu.”

“That’s nice,” says Sergei wistfully. “I went to Japan once. Some performance or other, I don’t remember, it’s not important. Beautiful country, but they serve alcohol warm – what is that? _Uzhas_. There was a girl there – she wore white makeup and sticks in her hair. She sang to us, and she smelled like flowers.”

Sergei sighs – and so lost in memory, he lifts his glass to his lips.

Victor holds his breath.

Victor’s been drunk before. Victor’s been so plastered with alcohol that he’s nursed a hangover for days, and had to skate through it, too.

_Don’t drink it, Sergei. Please don’t drink it. Say something. Anything. A toast to the weather. A toast to returning home. A toast to the tablecloth, for God’s sake. Just… don’t drink it by yourself._

Victor knows the rules – and he’s never broken them. He doesn’t drink without purpose. He doesn’t drink without also eating. If he follows the most important rule – which is never to leave a bottle until it’s empty – at least he’s been smart enough to make sure he’s not the only one responsible for drinking it.

_Don’t drink by yourself, Sergei. I’m afraid of what it will mean for you if you do._

Sergei drinks the vodka in a single gulp without saying a word beforehand. Victor’s heart sinks.

Yuuri shifts next to Victor, clearly sensing Victor’s discomfort, but his face is solemn, impassive, even if his eyes are wide. Victor still wants to take his hand, pull him away from the table, bury his face in Yuuri’s neck and stay there, with Yuuri’s arms around him.

He can’t take his eyes from his brother.

Sergei, as always, is oblivious to Victor’s pain. “I remember the music she played. I could write it for your free skate, Vitya. You still haven’t told me what you want for it.”

“I have a few ideas,” says Victor. He feels Yuuri startle next to him. Yuuri’s instant interest only makes him more tense.

“You should decide. You’re competing at the end of January, aren’t you?” He reaches for the vodka and fills his glass before topping up Victor’s and Yuuri’s, as if they’ve been drinking with him.

“The European Championships, yes. I’ll find it before Christmas.”

“I need time to make it yours,” Sergei warns him. “We aren’t all geniuses, you know, some of us work for what we’ve achieved.”

“Victor works very hard,” says Yuuri quietly.

“That’s the trouble, isn’t it?” says Sergei, toying with his vodka glass. “He works so hard, it’s easy to pretend that he doesn’t work at all.”

Sergei lifts his glass again, this time holding it toward the center of the table in preparation for a toast. Victor grits his teeth and copies him.

_At least he’s offering a toast._

“An old parable for you this time, Yuuri. A flock of birds were flying south for the winter, and one young bird decided to break from the pack. Higher and higher he flew, where the winds were easy. He left his flock behind, until he came too close to the sun. Burning his wings, he fell to the earth. Let us remember to stay close to our flocks, so that if we fall, we may be caught before we land.”

Victor doesn’t need to look to see the hesitant question on Yuuri’s face. He recognizes the story from a Soviet film he’d watched a thousand times as a child. No surprise that Yuuri doesn’t know it. Victor clinks his glass with his companions and bristles as they drink. Sergei drains his glass again; he and Yuuri only sip.

_In the movie, the characters felt sorry for the bird. I doubt Sergei feels much sorrow for me._

“Do you think what I do isn’t difficult?” asks Victor. Any plan he might have had about modulating his voice is dashed when he sees Yuuri’s worried glance.

“You dance on ice all day,” says Sergei. It’s not really an answer.

“You write music all day. Some would say you’ve got the easier job. At least you’re sitting down.”

Sergei points a shaking finger at him. “Creation is never easy. _Inspiration_ is never easy. You should know – you lost your inspiration, what did you do? You ran.” Sergei switches to Russian. “Some of us don’t have that option. We stay, we fight our battles like men. And look what you ran to – this is him, isn’t it? The boy at the Grand Prix last year, who bewitched you and ignored you? And you _followed_ him, like the sad sack you are, because heaven forbid one person exist who doesn’t love you, isn’t willing to roll over on their backs and let you step all over them.”

“Enough, Sergei,” says Victor in Russian, his teeth gritting together. He can see Yuuri’s eyes dart back and forth between them, no doubt wondering about the switch in languages. He hopes Yuuri won’t ask for a translation later.

“He’s a lovely souvenir, Victor. I hope you don’t tire of him anytime soon,” continues Sergei, and then switches back to English. “He’s the reason you had me compose your short program as I did, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” says Victor, hyper-aware of Yuuri sitting so very still next to him with the switch back to English. It’s one thing for Sergei to say things when Yuuri can’t understand them – but Victor doesn’t want to fight his brother in any language. Not here. Not in front of Yuuri.

“And your free skate? Will he inspire that, too?” asks Sergei. “No, don’t answer. That is what people would expect of you. And God knows, you can’t do anything that people would expect.” He turns to Yuuri. “Even when he was small, he took people’s expectations and turned them on their ears. He was meant to play hockey, you know. Like our great-uncle. Can you imagine that face with a broken nose and scars over his cheekbones?”

Yuuri’s smile is slight. “Not really.”

“It’s why he got the name and I didn’t. I was born, they took one look at my eyebrows and my fingers and said: this one! This one is a _Sergei_. He will compose concertos like Tchaikovsky, he will put Pushkin to music. Victor, they looked at his feet and the shape of his nose and said: this one, this one is for the ice, and they gave him the name to match.”

“Victor means ice in Russian?” asks Yuuri.

Sergei laughed – it almost sounds genuine. “In Russia? It might as well. He was named for our great-uncle, Victor Nikiforov, the Olympic hockey player. Victor got the looks, the name, the ice, the talent. I got the eyebrows.”

“You did put Pushkin to music,” says Victor quietly.

Sergei goes quiet, turning his shot glass in circles on the tablecloth. “I did,” he admits finally. “I did. And see what joy it brought me.

“Have you seen it?” Sergei asks Yuuri. His words are starting to slur a little bit. The vodka’s barely a quarter gone. Victor wonders how much Sergei had to drink already. The thought of his brother drinking before even arriving at Victor’s apartment breaks his heart more than any other part of the conversation.

“Our glorious city, the beautiful Saint Petersburg?” continues Sergei.

“Some of it,” says Yuuri. “The television studio wanted us in front of as many places as possible. I guess it was filmed for some telecast tomorrow night?”

“Ah,” says Sergei, bitterly. “Not even Russia’s Champion, and you still dance on their strings, Vitya. You could have stayed in Japan and been your own man, at least. I suppose you missed the spotlight. You always do.”

Victor is too angry to speak. He’s heard all of this from Sergei before – in so many ways, so many times.

But Yuuri is next to him, the dining room is slowly filling with people, and he’s entirely too conscious of everyone watching them.

_Not now. Not here._

He exhales his anger. “Go home, Sergei. You’ll feel better with sleep.”

“We’ll finish this first,” says Sergei as he pours himself another glass. “There are rules to drinking in Russia, Yuuri. Victor here won’t have me breaking them. You should help me finish this off.”

Victor can’t keep the shortness from his reply. “I have practice in the morning. We both do.”

“And I have music to write. But at least I can do it with some vodka under my belt. I suppose that’s one thing I have that you do not, eh, Vitya?” He digs into his coat pocket and pulls out a CD, dropping it on the table. “Go, go. I can show myself out. Don’t pay for my drink this time. I can support my own crutches, if you would.”

Victor stands. “ _Dobroy nochi_ , Sergei,” he says.

Yuuri stands too. “ _Ochen’ priyatno_ ,” he says, and bows.

Sergei’s smile quirks. “ _Da, bylo priyatno poznakomit’sa_ , Katsuki Yuuri. Don’t let my brother make you forget who you are.”

Victor can feel the rising irritation prickle under his skin; he puts his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Come on, Yuuri,” he says, leading him out of the restaurant. He stops briefly by the bar to hand over a few rubles to pay for the drink before hustling them back out onto the street.

“He says he will pay, but.” Victor shrugs. “I’m sorry, are you hungry? We can get something to take home. After a certain point, Sergei is not what one would say is desirable company.”

“I had dinner with Mila. But if you want something—”

Victor remembers the moment Yuuri says it; just another thing to feel guilty about. “No,” he says shortly. “I’d rather sleep. I’ve lost my appetite.”

It’s too cold to talk on the walk back to the apartment. They’re just walking up to the door when Irina appears with Makkachin, who is overjoyed to see them. She jumps up and down, barking enthusiastically.

It’s not intentional, the way that Victor busies himself with heaping love on Makkachin, with talking to Irina about her studies, deflecting her onto Yuuri to practice her English.

It’s only slightly deliberate, how he turns his back on Yuuri when they arrive home, feeds Makkachin before disappearing into the bathroom, where he stares at his reflection in the mirror, looking for the familiar shape of eyebrows, of his ears, of the grey of his hair.

Sergei doesn’t look back at him. But neither does their father, unless he squints.

The apartment is warm again, the windows closed tight in Marina’s ever-continuing battle against winter. The heat is both familiar and overpowering. It prickles at the back of Victor’s neck, almost uncomfortable. He was never _cold_ at Yu-topia Katsuki, but he’d forgotten the suffocating warmth of Russian apartments. It’s made worse by the sweat dried on his skin, the exhaustion in his muscles that long for hot springs steaming in the cold winter air.

He takes a long shower instead. When he’s done, the lights in the bedroom are off and Yuuri’s already in the bed, though not asleep. Yuuri watches him, squinting just a bit to compensate for his poor eyesight. Victor kneels on the bed, leaning over to brush the hair from his face.

“I’m tired,” says Yuuri. He sounds so impossibly sad and miserable and lonely that all Victor wants to do is crawl under the covers and wrap himself around him. “But there’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

_He wants to be alone_ , Victor realizes.

It’s even more of a shock to realize that for once, Victor isn’t ready to give Yuuri the space he needs. He’d rather press his warm face into the coolness of Yuuri’s chest, let his steady calm flow over his heat and anger he still feels under his skin until he’s breathing smoothly, halfway to sleep.

Yuuri would let him. He wouldn’t protest, but there’d be a stiffness in the way his arms circled Victor. Whatever sleep either achieved, it wouldn’t be easy.

_I want Yuuri to be glad he’s followed me. I never want him to regret the decision to come here._

Victor briefly runs his thumb along Yuuri’s jaw. “All right. I won’t be long.”

“I know,” says Yuuri. The moment Victor pulls his hand away, Yuuri closes his eyes and turns his face into the pillow.

Victor closes the door softly behind him.

_He can’t be upset that I never brought up Sergei. He’s seen what Sergei’s like now. He’s probably worried about Zhenya. I’ll have to explain that she’s different. That they’ll love each other. Probably more than they both love me._

_When he asks in the morning, I’ll tell him. It’ll be fine._

*

Yuuri doesn’t ask in the morning.

And Victor says nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Viktor Nikiforov](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Viktor_Nikiforov) was an Olympic hockey skater for the Soviet Union in the 1950s. That is literally all I know about him, including whether or not he was in fact related to figure skaters. But I do love that there was an actual factual Olympic gold medalist Viktor Nikiforov.
> 
> **Translations:**  
>  Vot ty gde! Ya tebya obyskalas. (Russian) - There you are! I've been looking all over for you.  
> Pivet! (Russian) - Hello (informal)  
> Za vstrechu (Russian) - To meeting (new people)  
> Uzhas (Russian) - Horrible  
> Dobroy nochi (Russian) - Good night  
> Da, bylo priyatno poznakomit (Russian) - Yes, it was nice being introduced to you.


	13. Yakov's Rockin' New Year's Eve

Morning skate the next day is roughly the same as the day before – only this time, there’s no allowances for jet lag.

“Ten quad flips, Yuuri,” says Victor cheerfully as they complete their warm-ups. “And then work on the flying sit-spin and your step sequence. We should utilize the extra space since Yura isn’t here.”

“All right,” says Yuuri, pulling on his skating gloves. He’s almost shaken the sudden and crushing sorrow from the previous night – let no one say that Katsuki Yuuri isn’t used to dealing with disappointment. Katsuki Yuuri eats disappointment for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Learning that Victor had to be blackmailed into letting Yuuri meet his brother – and hasn’t said a _word_ about when Yuuri might meet the rest of Victor’s family – is certainly going to feed his anxiety for some time.

_Is it me? Am I too embarrassing to introduce to them? I dragged Victor halfway across the world for nearly a year, he probably missed so many family birthdays and events because of me. They must hate me!_

It’s ridiculous, of course.

It’s probably ridiculous.

It’s only a little bit true.

It is completely and 100% accurate, and Victor’s determination not to bring up his family at all since waking up that morning is evidence enough.

_As if he’s trying to pretend the entire thing didn’t happen_ , thinks Yuuri grimly. _Well… maybe that could work? Focus on skating. He’s still willing to talk to me about skating, at least._

Yuuri flexes his hands to make sure his skating gloves are on snugly. “Any advice on how to land the quad?”

“One foot down, one foot up, don’t touch the ice,” says Victor.

“Thanks,” says Yuuri. “Helpful. I’ll work on that.”

Victor’s smile is bright. “Good! I’ll be watching!”

“No, you won’t,” growled Yakov from the other side of the boards as Victor skates out to center ice. “You’re supposed to be working on your _own_ jumps, Vitya – or did I misunderstand your reasons for returning to Saint Petersburg in the first place?”

“I know, I know!” sang Victor, already skating beyond shouting distance.

“Please tell me that’s not how he coaches,” groans the man standing next to Yakov. Yuuri recognizes him as the jump coach from the day before – Sasha, he thinks. He’s handsome in a classically Russian way with hair that makes him look vaguely like a Ken doll, and the sort of thighs that probably should have won gold medals just by showing up.

“No, he’s good,” insists Yuuri loyally. “It’s just… sometimes it takes him a couple of tries to figure out how to explain it.”

“It’s a little more complex than ‘jump and land on one foot’,” says Sasha, and Yakov snorts, amused. “It wasn’t that long ago that he was learning how to do these jumps. He should remember how it was he was taught.”

“Some he learned last week,” says Yakov. “ _Again_.”

“Yuuuuuuri!” sings Victor from the ice. “You’re meant to be skating!”

“Twenty-five seconds,” Sasha says to Yakov, who snorts with laughter again. “Pay up.”

“Huh?” says Yuuri, confused.

“Yuuuuri!”

Yuuri shakes his head – it doesn’t matter what they were counting. He’s wasting time, anyway. “Yes, Coach!” he calls back.

Sasha mutters something as Yuuri pushes off that sounds suspiciously like “ _da, trener_ ”... but Yuuri can’t hear it well enough to be sure.

_Anyway, it was Russian_ , he tells himself. _Not for me to hear._

He feels Sasha’s eyes on him the rest of training, anyway.

*

“Ballet next,” says Victor, glancing at their schedule after he’s done with his cool-down stretches. The locker room is definitely emptier than usual. Most of the athletes still there are putting on their heavy coats and scarves as they prepare to leave for the day; Yuuri looks at them longingly, still feeling the queasiness from that morning.

_Jet lag. Gotta be the jet lag. Unless Victor’s somehow figured out how to express his displeasure with me via emotional transference._

_Aaaaaand now that I’ve come up with that theory, obviously it’s the one I’m going to believe for the rest of the day. Shit._

If Victor’s emotionally transferring anything, he’s at least able to continue talking as he does it. “And then we’ll have all afternoon to ourselves. We won’t even have to return until Monday morning.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, curling his fingers around his toes. It’s his last stretch and feels so good he’s determined to let it last as long as possible. “That’ll give me a chance to get that SIM card. And maybe a haircut.”

Victor shakes his head. “I doubt we’ll find anything open. A nap would be a better idea. We’ll want to be awake for Yakov’s party. We can take advantage of jet lag!”

Yuuri’s eyes linger on the schedule as Victor shoves it back into his locker before slamming the door shut. Not that it’d do much good to look at it – the entire schedule’s written in Russian, and Yuuri can barely sound out the letters. “You couldn’t have thought about jet lag two hours ago when I was working on quad flips?”

Victor chuckles. “You’ll love Yulia, Yuuri. She’s been my ballet instructor for the last fifteen years, she’s very good.”

“I’d be surprised if she wasn’t,” says Yuuri as he pulls out of the stretch with a sigh. Victor is quickly immersed in a conversation with another skater down the row of lockers while Yuuri pulls out the small cloth bag that holds his ballet shoes. There’s a frisson of excitement as he closes his own locker. Somewhere in his distant past there’s an eight-year-old Yuuri still enamored with ballet and completely unaware of Victor Nikiforov, and he’s leaping about the room in excitement for his very first ballet class in _Russia_.

_Minako would be leaping right along with him,_ thinks Yuuri with a wry smile. Minako had probably been more excited than Yuuri when she’d realized what training in Russia would include.

“Embarrass me and I will come to Saint Petersburg and _end you_ ,” she’d threatened, and then made him practice _tour jétés_ until he’d been unable to stand.

Victor and Yuuri are somewhere in the labyrinth of the complex, deep in a half-joking argument over which one of them is most likely to land a quad axel first, when there’s a shout from the end of the hall.

“Victor Andreyevich!”

Yuuri sees the pained expression on Victor’s face, just before he replaces it with a bright smile instead.

“Valentina Maratovna!” he says, turning around. “We were just headed to ballet.”

Valentina looks just as thunderous coming down the hall as she does in Yuuri’s hazy, jet-lagged memory. He gulps and straightens his back, because he’s learned that a show of bravery sometimes tricks even him into believing he doesn’t really want to just turn tail and run.

“Wrong, Victor,” says Valentina briskly. “ _Yuuri_ is headed to ballet. You are headed to the fifth floor.”

Victor doesn’t hide his irritation. “Now?”

“When I’m the one receiving very upset calls because you were meant to appear yesterday – yes. Now.”

Victor sighs. “All right.” He turns to Yuuri. “I’m sorry. The fifth floor is not something I should ignore. Go on without me, I’ll try to catch up, but it might take a while.”

“What’s on the fifth floor?” asks Yuuri.

Victor shrugs. “Administrative offices, mostly. It’s to do with my registration at Europeans and Worlds, no doubt, probably the plane tickets to get us there, too.”

“Oh. Yeah, probably should take care of it, then.”

Victor leans over and kisses his cheek. “Go on, _solnyshko_ , it’s just down the hall and to the left. Studio 2B. Apologize to Yulia for me, please.”

“Of course.” Yuuri squeezes the bag in his hands, watching Victor head back down the hall.

“Mr. Katsuki,” says Valentina, her voice breaking into the silence. “I trust you’re settling in, recovering from jet lag, finding the facility to be of an appropriate standard.”

_Going to do just well enough to make a good showing, while allowing our skaters to still shine with gold around their necks and not yours._

“It’s the best facility I’ve ever seen,” says Yuuri honestly. “I understand why Russian sport is so dominant on the world stage.”

Valentina’s eyes narrow as she hums softly. “Victor’s rubbing off on you.”

Yuuri doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t even dare _breathe_ for fear that he’ll burst into nervous and apologetic giggles. It’s sheer willpower that keeps his face from turning so bright-red-hot that it pops off his body.

Valentina doesn’t even seem to realize what she’s said.

“Enjoy your ballet,” she says, before turning and leaving him to gasp for breath.

*

There’s four other students in the studio already warming up at the barre when Yuuri slips in. None of them pay Yuuri the slightest attention, but the older woman holding the heavy staff brightens the moment he steps inside.

“Yuuri Katsuki,” she says warmly. She looks like every ballet instructor the world over: dark brown hair in a perfect bun at the back of her head, muscles visible above her ballet slippers, clad in black tights. Her accent is much like Victor’s, thick enough to make Yuuri’s name sound sensuous. Hearing it from a woman would sound wrong if her studio didn’t remind him so much of Minako’s. “I am Yulia Mednikova. Welcome to my studio.”

“Thank you,” says Yuuri, torn between liking her automatically and wishing he didn’t have to tell her that Victor was skipping her class.

“And where is Vitya? Playing to another fiddle, I suppose?”

“Ah,” says Yuuri, wondering how often it happened that she was neither surprised nor visibly disappointed. “I think so?”

Yulia chuckles and shakes her head. “He will be very sad to hear I am not the least bit surprised.”

“Did he miss class a lot?”

“At least once a week! Always for the best reasons, of course – there’s quite a few obligations that come with being Victor Nikiforov. But I don’t have to tell you this.”

“No, I guess you don’t,” says Yuuri, a bit slowly, as he thinks back to the number of times already that Victor’s been pulled one way or the other by the administrative staff at the complex.

“So tell me, Yuuri – what kind of training have you had?”

“Well – I started dancing ballet when I was three. I was taking it four times a week when I really got serious about figure skating – that was when I was eleven. I tried to keep up with it as much as I could, but it was hard with all the extra training on the ice.”

Yulia nods approvingly. “Of course. It’s good that you continued.”

“Coach Katayama insisted, and Minako-sensei was flexible with making sure there was always a class scheduled when I could attend. Well, she was the one who said I should be figure skating, I think she’s still a little bitter that her suggestion took me out of her studio.”

Yulia cocks her head. “Minako?”

“Yes, Okukawa Minako. She was my ballet instructor, but she performed in Paris before she taught.”

“Hmm,” muses Yulia. “I’m not very familiar with the Japanese style of ballet. What sort of method did she use to teach?”

_Yell a lot and threaten to beat all of us with sticks?_

Yuuri shrugs. “Sort of a corrupted Bournonville method, is what she always said. There’s not really a prevailing method in Japan. Minako is very excited that you’re allowing me to join you, though – she says the Vaganova method would probably be much better for figure skating.”

“I’ve always believed so – and of course Madame Baranovskya swears by it. Well,” says Yulia kindly, “we’ll work with what you can do. You’re lovely to watch on the ice, and Victor spoke well of you. I have no doubt you’ll be fine in this class.”

It’s good to stretch out after the ice, but it’s even better to slide into the comfort of dancing in shoes and not skates. Even if the style of training is different, the warm up is the same, the music is the same, the sound of Yulia’s stick marking the beat and her voice counting out in French. Yuuri bends backwards and glances at his reflection in the mirror to check his line. He could so easily be back in Minako’s studio, fifteen years old and attending just another Saturday dance class, already thinking ahead to the afternoon on the ice.

Except now he’s thinking ahead to an afternoon of just he and Victor, lounging around their apartment. Unpacking the rest of their things, taking Makkachin for a walk, settling into the beginning of their life together.

_Talking about his brother and why Victor seems determined to pretend he doesn’t have a sister or any other relations either_ , thinks Yuuri bitterly, and immediately feels terrible for still feeling bitter. _I should have said something morning. Sergei and Zhenya are a part of Victor’s life. He can’t actually plan to ignore them for the rest of our lives?_

_Wait a minute. This is Victor. Of course he is! He probably will forget to mention them until they show up at our funerals!_

The class is halfway through learning a routine; they easily fold Yuuri into the rehearsal. It’s challenging enough to be enjoyable. By the end of the class, Yuuri’s memorized maybe half of the routine and has a good handle on the rest.

“Wish I could pick up new steps as fast as that,” says one of the other boys enviously.

Yuuri blushes as he settles a towel on the back of his neck. “I’ve always been good at picking up choreography.”

Yulia catches his arm before he heads out. “Write her name down for me, Yuuri?”

“Huh?”

“Your teacher. Mirako?”

“Minako,” Yuuri corrects her. He writes down the name just as Victor dashes through the door.

“Did I miss it?” he asks with a large smile.

“To the surprise of absolutely no one,” says Yulia, pocketing the paper with Minako’s name.

“Next week, then,” says Victor cheerfully, flinging his arm over Yuuri’s shoulders. “What do you think, Yulia? Isn’t he as good as I told you he would be?”

“Better, I should think,” says Yulia, giving Yuuri a critical look from the top of his head to the tip of his sneakered toes. “I never put much faith in your ability to scout ballet talent, but perhaps I misjudged you.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, eyes going wide.

“Victor wouldn’t know a _paso doble_ from a _pas de deux_ ,” Yulia tells Yuuri, as if in confidence.

“Yulia! You wound me!” Victor reels back, his hand to his heart. “Of course Yuuri’s good! His teacher won the Benois!”

Yulia’s mouth drops open in shock. “She _what_?”

“Come on, Yuuri,” says Victor, as if he has no idea of the bombshell he’s just dropped on his ballet instructor. “Let’s go swimming before we go home.”

“We can’t go swimming. We mailed our swimsuits and they’re not here yet, remember?”

“Who needs swimsuits?”

“We do!”

“Yulia! Tell Yuuri we don’t need swimsuits!”

Yuuri glances back, sure that the ballet instructor will be on his side in the matter of appropriate clothing.

But Yulia doesn’t say a word – she’s already squinting at the paper with Minako’s name, as if the letters will realign themselves to form Minako’s entire CV and show video of the last ten years of Yuuri’s lessons with her.

*

Lunch is loud and boisterous. Mila cheerfully teaches Yuuri every fanciful curse word she knows in Russian while Yuuri teaches her the equivalent in Japanese. Georgi and Victor converse in Lutzes and Axels and Salchows.

He’s not deliberately ignoring Yuuri. Yuuri knows that – and besides, he’s got Victor’s hip and thigh pressed up against his own, proving that whatever else Victor might be feeling, he’s not particularly antagonistic toward Yuuri at the moment. Besides, listening to Victor speak Russian does something to Yuuri that makes him very glad the table hides his lower half from view. He turns to Mila with fresh resolve.

“How about teaching me something longer?” he suggests, a phrase already forming in his mind.

Mila’s eyes light up.

Pavel drives them home again – but any plans to spend a lazy afternoon together are dashed when Victor falls asleep on the couch almost the moment he walks through the door. Makkachin noses at Victor’s hand unsuccessfully before looking helplessly at Yuuri.

Yuuri tries not to take it personally. He clips Makkachin’s leash to her collar and heads back out for a quick walk. It’s cold and growing colder, and most everyone else seems very intent on getting to where they’re going as quickly as possible. Apart from the typical teenage contingent sitting across the street, Yuuri doesn’t anyone loitering around – nor does he see a single open barber shop or cell phone store.

Victor snores through half the afternoon, Makkachin curled up on his feet, while Yuuri checks his email and finishes unpacking. The suitcases are wedged in the lounge closet, Yuuri’s clothes are neatly folded and put away. The precious embroidered Russian and Japanese egg which Yuuri won in Tokyo sits on the table near Victor’s head, slightly squashed from travel and leaning mournfully toward Victor, still snoozing on the couch, as if deeply insulted that Victor has stolen its rightful place of honor.

Yuuri pokes through the cupboards in search of tea when he’s done, thinking idly about where to put the shrine when it eventually shows up. He and Phichit had not exactly _argued_ about where to put their shared shrine back in Detroit, but the discussions had gone on for three days and had probably been what cemented their friendship from the start. Yuuri doubts Victor will care very much.

_No, that’s not fair,_ Yuuri tells himself. _He’ll care, but it doesn’t really matter to him, not in the same way. He’ll just say to put it where I think it should go._

Yuuri’s halfway through a cup of tea and an email to Phichit when he realizes how exhausted he is, and heads back to the bedroom to lie down for a bit.

When he wakes, the sun’s long since gone down and Makkachin has switched to sleeping on his feet instead of Victor’s. Yuuri can hear Victor puttering around in the apartment, singing softly to himself.

A quick glance at the clock confirms it’s well-past dinnertime, nearly time for them to head back out for Yakov’s party. Yuuri reaches over and flicks on the lamp.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” says Victor, coming into the room. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

He’s showered and changed since that morning; Yuuri can smell the steam from the bathroom and the cologne Victor prefers. He’s dressed casually – nice slacks, button-down shirt – and looks so impossibly good that Yuuri knows he’s going to feel like a poor country cousin in comparison. “Is it almost time to go?”

Victor nods, looking happy. “This’ll be the first year in almost a decade that I’ve been able to attend Yakov’s party from start to finish. The nap was a good idea, but we’re almost late. Come on, sleepy-head! There’s just enough time for a shower before we have to go!”

_Yup,_ thinks Yuuri. _Ignoring in progress. Who needs conversation anyway?_

*

It’s long past sunset when Pavel drops them off outside Yakov’s apartment building. Yuuri isn’t sure what he expected Yakov’s apartment to look like. He doesn’t expect the building to look like a prison.

“Huh,” he says, standing on the pavement outside the plain concrete building. The windows are all uniformly square and look too small to be of much use. The overall color of the walls is grey, with the exception of the enclosed balconies that run up the corner of the buildings like stacked plastic tablecloths. “This looks… nice.”

Victor hums, as if he knows Yuuri’s being generous. “It looks like Khrushchev built it. Which is probably because he did. It’s a lot nicer inside.”

“I can’t really see Lilia living here,” says Yuuri, following him.

“She doesn’t. She’s got a house on the river. Yura says it’s full of antiques and looks like Versailles exploded inside.”

Their shoes crunch on the thin layer of slush and ice on the pavement – no doorman here to keep it clear at all times. Victor’s head is bowed and his shoulders are hunched over, and Yuuri can’t tell if it’s with the effort of not falling, or because he’s feeling the weight of everything that’s gone unsaid all day, just as much as Yuuri has.

_It’s the walk_ , Yuuri tells himself. _Just the walk. And it’s cold. That’s it. No tension. We’re fine fine fine fine..._

The lobby is as grim as the exterior. The tile floors are scrubbed clean but faded in clear pathways, and the rows of mailboxes along the wall are scratched and dented with age. It’s a little bit warmer than the outside, enough that they’re able to unbutton their coats and loosen their scarves, but otherwise it’s just chilly enough that Yuuri’s happy to keep his coat on, even if there’s no elevator and only a wide stairwell going up. Their steps echo along with the sound from the doors as they climb upwards.

“It’s a lot quieter in the rink when Yurio’s not there,” says Yuuri, wondering if _any_ conversation will make the tension ease. “Do we know if he got to Moscow all right?”

“I’m sure we would have heard if he hadn’t,” says Victor. “For one thing, Yuri’s Angels would have lit up social media the minute he didn’t step off the train. Assuming they didn’t follow him on it in the first place.”

“Poor Yurio,” murmurs Yuuri. “I’m glad I never had any fans that rabid.”

Victor raises an eyebrow. “Just the one who showed up naked in your parents’ onsen.”

Yuuri stops climbing for a minute, knowing that Victor will hear his pause. “Who says it was only _one_?”

Victor grins at him over his shoulder, delighted.

_We’re fine, we’re fine, we’re fine_ , sings Yuuri’s brain, satisfied. _See? Ignoring works!_

Yuuri hears the music long before they reach Yakov’s apartment. It echoes down the stairwell, bright and bouncy and not anything Yuuri recognizes. He can hear what must be a dozen people singing along in Russian, with the sort of verve and vibrancy that usually is only accompanied by serious amounts of alcohol and several dozen college fraternities.

By the time they reach what is undoubtedly Yakov’s door, the noise is almost unbearable. And that’s _with_ the door closed.

“Aren’t the neighbors going to complain?” he asks Victor, raising his voice a little to make sure Victor can hear him.

“Probably not, since they’re usually invited,” says Victor, nearly shouting. He pushes open the door; the noise almost pushes Yuuri over.

“Vitya, you can’t just go _in_ —”

“They’ll never hear the knock,” shouts Victor.

The apartment looks exactly as if the brightly-colored crocheted blanket on Victor’s bed exploded. The wallpaper is striped green with golden accents in a strange almost paisley-like pattern. Thankfully, it’s mostly covered with dark-framed black-and-white and faded color photographs, all of famous cities and attractions around the world. These are interspersed with far-more colorful hangings: brightly colored paintings and tapestries, commemorative ceramic plates and colored glass tiles. Yuuri spots what he’s sure is a kabuki mask on one wall, and a bow-and-arrow on another.

The hardwood floor is scratched and buffed to a shine around thread-bare, dark-colored Turkish carpets. The furniture is dark and heavy, its center point an enormous table covered in a cheap plastic tablecloth. The table overflows with bowls and plates of food as well as bottles of beer and wine and vodka. There’s a pile of tiny paper plates and tinier plastic forks on one end, and towers of heavy crystal shot glasses waiting to be used.

There’s also more people than is probably structurally sound for the apartment. They shout in glee when Victor calls out, “ _Dobriy vecher_!” The answers aren’t all in Russian, either.

“Wow,” says Yuuri, eyes wide. At least, he _thinks_ he says it. It’s so loud, he can’t even hear himself speak. It’s both exactly like and entirely different from every frat party he ever attended with Phichit. It’s jovial, cheerful, inebriated – and also nearly as foreign as the fraternity houses had been.

The difference is noticeable immediately – because here, Yuuri’s not ignored or seen as an object of curiosity. Not given the way that within minutes, Yuuri finds himself pulled into the party, his coat forcibly removed from his back. Someone takes his scarf and gloves and hat. In exchange he’s given a shot glass of what is undoubtedly vodka.

“So good you’re here!”

“What took you so long?”

Yuuri loses sight of Victor almost immediately. He’s sure Victor’s in the apartment _somewhere_ – he can hear Victor’s laughter – but he can’t see him. There’s too many people and most of them seem intent on talking to Yuuri.

At least they speak English, even if it’s clearly fueled and/or influenced by vodka.

 “Can’t wait to see you skate!”

“Let’s drink to the beauty of new friendship!”

“Yuuri, you need a drink!”

“I have a drink,” says Yuuri, before he looks down and realizes that he doesn’t anymore. “Oh. I don’t have a drink. Did I drink that?”

“You need to eat,” says someone in heavily accented English. Yuuri thinks he recognizes the man from the skating complex, but he doesn’t have a clue who it is. The man pulls Yuuri to the table, where he piles the paper plate with salads and pieces of meat and pickled vegetables and fried bready things that Yuuri doesn’t recognize. The plate nearly folds in on itself when the man hands it to Yuuri. “Eat! Eat!”

“O-o-okay,” stammers Yuuri. With both hands full of food and newly reacquired drink, there’s not much he can do, and he fumbles with them both.

“Yuuri!” says another voice. He coughs with the sudden influx of cigarette smoke as Sasha, the jump coach, grins widely at him. “Your combination this morning, the quad Sal triple toe. The triple toe was over-rotated, why was that? Do you always have that much power on your second jump? You should use that, you could very easily expand that into the world’s first quad quad. What do you think?”

Yuuri isn’t sure what to think. “I—”

“Leave the boy alone,” scolds another voice as another person joins the conversation, pressing in close in the already close quarters of Yakov’s living room. “You know Victor thinks Yuuri is his exclusive territory.”

“That’s not true, Victor’s just—” Yuuri begins, but neither of them are listening to him – or maybe he just hasn’t spoken loudly enough. The music is blaring and there’s a crash of laughter from somewhere in the apartment.

The sweat on his forehead is already beginning to make him uncomfortable, not to mention the way Sasha is arguing at top volume in Russian next to him.

_Where’s Victor? He was just here – I can’t see anyone I know_!

Yuuri’s strongly considering just ducking back out into the hallway – for a moment of quiet from the constant pounding of Russian, if nothing else – when there’s a soft hand on his arm.

“Yuuri!” says Mila, giggling and sympathetic. “Oh, dear. Come with me before you faint.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri gratefully.

They’re halfway through the scrum of people when Georgi appears out of nowhere to grab Mila by the arms.

“ _Ona zdes’_!” he whispers frantically.

Mila’s eyes go wide. “Anya? _Vot suka. Ona vmeste so svoim hokkeistom_?” She practically spits the words; Yuuri has no idea who Anya is, but he sips at his drink thankful he’s not her.

“ _Da_.” Georgi’s hand trembles as he lifts the glass up to his lips.

Mila is quick to pull his arm back down again. “ _Gde oni_?”

Georgi doesn’t answer; he just uses the shot glass to gesture across the room. Both Mila and Yuuri turn to look.

Yuuri’s pretty sure Anya is the buxom black-haired woman currently fawning and leaning up on the top-heavy, scruffy-haired athlete. Yuuri’s willing to admit she’s pretty, though not his type. Her lips are too full, her eyes are too dark, and there’s a pout that seems to be permanently etched on her face. She seems… polished, almost too perfect, a little like she’s striving to be the ideal woman to every man in the room.

The hockey player is equally made up to be the paradigm of perfection. Every hair is perfectly in place, every tooth shines when he smiles, and there’s even a sparkle in his eyes as he laughs at Anya’s jokes.

“Yuuri, stay with Georgi,” Mila says. “I’ve got this.”

“Mila,” hisses Yuuri, “what are you—?”

But she’s gone, heading through the crowd, weaving through so expertly that Yuuri can’t even see her small frame behind the guests who are talking, laughing, joking amongst themselves.

Yuuri glances at Georgi, who’s lifting the vodka up to his mouth with shaking hands.

Yuuri reflexively reaches over to push Georgi’s arm back down again. The moment he makes contact with Georgi’s arm, he’s sure that Georgi will lash out – but to his surprise, Georgi lowers his arm again without protest.

Georgi does inhale sharply, and Yuuri’s gaze snaps back to the couple across the room.

His eyes widen.

The two is now three: Anya, her hockey player… and Mila, who is hanging off the hockey player’s arm, saying something in excited and energetic tones. The hockey player has a smile frozen on his face, as if he’s not entirely sure what his happening, and Anya….

Anya looks halfway between horrified and _livid_.

Worse – every person standing nearby is making supreme efforts to look as if they aren’t paying attention, even though it’s patently obvious they’re hanging on every single word.

Mila lets out a delightful laugh as she reaches up to pat the hockey player’s cheek. When she turns to Anya, she covers her mouth with her fingers, as if she hadn’t realized Anya had been there, and then with a final farewell, turns and slips back into the crowd.

The moment she’s gone, Anya tosses her drink in the hockey player’s face and turns to go, with the hockey player begging and pleading after her. Yuuri can’t hear what he’s saying – and even if he could, he knows he wouldn’t understand it. But there’s no mistaking the desperation in the hockey player’s voice – or the delighted, voyeuristic grins from everyone around them.

Mila returns with a triumphant smile on her face and a bottle of vodka in her hand.

“Liudmila Yevgenievna Babicheva, _what did you_ _do_?” breathes Georgi.

“I suspect they’ll be leaving now,” she says as she tops off their glasses. “Boys, a toast.”

Georgi shakes his head, but lifts his glass. Mila looks at Yuuri’s glass pointedly, and he quickly lifts it up too.

“To revenge, which is best served in the glaring heat of the entire skating community.”

_Note to self,_ thinks Yuuri. _Never piss off Mila._

“To revenge,” repeat Georgi and Yuuri simultaneously, and they drink. Yuuri doesn’t expect the vodka to _burn_ going down, but clearly whatever Mila’s grabbed on her return is a vastly different vintage. Or whatever one calls vodka; Yuuri’s not entirely sure he remembers much of anything anymore, including how one breathes.

Yuuri is still coughing while Georgi pounds on his back when he hears it.

“KATSUKI YUURI.”

The name is thunderous in the already rowdy apartment. Yuuri’s eyes go wide when he spies Yulia storming through the crowd of people, as if she’s an ice clipper and they’re puny icebergs not worth her notice.

Maybe there’s something about ballet instructors, because the outright _fury_ in Yulia’s eyes reminds Yuuri of the _exact_ expression that Minako had given him when he showed up to dance class one day on three hours of sleep. Never mind that he’d just brought home a gold medal from his first international Juniors competition – Minako had been _furious_ that he hadn’t managed to sleep longer on the way back from California.

_Oh no_.

“Y-y-yulia,” Yuuri stammers. “Hello. I didn’t know you were here!”

“Katsuki Yuuri,” said Yulia, leaning into him with her finger poking into his chest. It’s a very pointy finger. Yulia’s cheeks are flushed and her words slur just a tiny bit, as if she’s already been imbibing some of Yakov’s plentiful vodka.

Mila and Georgi glance back and forth between Yulia and Yuuri, but neither of them make a move to help.

“That’s me?” says Yuuri, a bit shaky.

“You did not tell me you were trained by _Minako Okukawa_.”

“Um…” Yuuri racks his brain, trying to remember the dance lesson from that afternoon. “I… think I did?”

Yulia looks as if she’s about to _cry_. “Winner of the Prix de Lausaunne Scholarship. Prima Ballerina for the Paris Opera for _ten years_. _Two-time winner_ ”—Yulia stabs Yuuri’s chest for emphasis with each word—“of the Prix de Benois de Danse, first as a ballerina, and then as a choreographer! _Katsuki Yuuri, why the hell are you in my class?_ ”

Yuuri’s eyes are round as saucers. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Mila and Georgi, staring back at him with eyes equally as round.

“Um. Because that’s where Victor wanted me?”

“BAH!” shouts Yulia.

Yuuri, Mila, and Georgi all jump.

“I know you love him, but this is your career,” snaps Yulia. “You do not belong with me, Katsuki Yuuri! You should be training under Lilia.”

Mila makes a strange, high-pitched whimpering sort of sound, which she immediately drowns in her vodka.

Georgi just drinks the vodka.

“Wait – what? Lilia? Lilia Baranovskaya, Lilia? Lila, Yakov’s ex-wife Lilia? Lilia, _Yurio’s choreographer_ Lilia?” squeaks Yuuri.

Lilia, who had worn her hair down at the Grand Prix banquet and looked exactly like a less endearing Morticia Addams. Lilia who had looked like she wanted to _throttle_ Yurio when he’d changed his exhibition skate in Barcelona.

When Minako had heard that Yurio was not only training under Lilia Baranovskya, but _living_ with her… she had laughed so hard that she’d fallen off her bar stool, banged her head on the counter, blacked out for a second… and woken up _still laughing_.

_That_ Lilia.

“Yes,” said Yulia, stabbing Yuuri’s chest again for emphasis.

“Um,” said Yuuri, faltering and wondering if it’d be worth pretending that he’d forgotten how to speak anything but Japanese.

“Lilia is an outstanding choreographer, a disciplinarian without peer, and the _only_ reason she was never as highly decorated as your Okukawa Minako is because she was born twenty years too early. And don’t tell me you aren’t good enough to be in her class – you are wasting your time with me, Katsuki Yuuri, and this afternoon you proved it beyond a doubt. I _knew_ I recognized her name! I just had to look it up. I’d forgotten all about that scandal – _such_ a shame, I always wondered what happened – but that’s not the point! You need to train with Lilia! Not with me!”

_Scandal? What scandal?_

_Never mind that! I can’t switch classes, Victor wants me with Yulia for a reason!_

_…doesn’t he?_

“But Victor—" gasps Yuuri.

Yulia throws up her hands again. “God grant me patience from figure skaters in love!” she shouts. Georgi holds his glass out to Mila, who automatically fills it with another shot of vodka. The alcohol isn’t in the glass for more than a few seconds before Georgi downs it. “Fine! Ask your Victor. And then tell me next week you’re changing classes! Or better yet, don’t show up!”

She spins on her heel, nearly falls over into Mila – who helps her regain her footing without a single word – and melts back into the crowd as easily as if she’d never been there in the first place.

“Wow,” says Mila, still staring between Yuuri and the place where Yulia disappeared. “So… are you going to switch ballet classes?”

Yuuri closes his eyes. “ _Dō shiyō_!”

Georgi lowers his vodka, finally. When he speaks, it’s with the air of someone quoting an oft-repeated proverb. “ _Litsom krasavitsa, a nravom tol'ko chortu nravitsya_.”

Mila rolled her eyes and fills all three glasses again. “Oh, _Georgi!_ ”

“ _Tol’ko_ ,” offered Yuuri. “I understood _tol’ko_. Only _tol’ko_.”

“She has a face of beauty, but only the devil likes her temper,” says Georgi, and throws back the rest of his vodka.

Mila raises her glass too. “That’s what he said,” she says cheerfully, and follows suit.

Yuuri looks at his glass. “Oh, what the hell,” he groans, and drains his glass dry.

 *

Mila and Georgi spend the next twenty minutes teaching Yuuri how to drink like a Russian, which mostly involves remembering to _eat_ between every sip. Gradually the light-headedness that always spells the start of inebriation fades. It doesn’t completely go away – Yuuri’s lost count of how many sips and bites it takes to learn what Mila and Georgi are trying to teach him (not that he remembers that, either) – but at least he’s not getting any drunker than he was when Yulia threatened him with ballet.

When Yuuri’s plate is finally empty, Georgi wanders off to refill it (and possibly source additional vodka). When he doesn’t immediately return, Mila takes Yuuri by the arm and leads them out onto the enclosed balcony, which has the distinct advantage of being quieter than the apartment. Yuuri’s ears ring faintly in the comparative quiet, but the cold air feels marvelously refreshing, even if it smells like stale cigarette smoke.

“Bah,” groans Mila, wrinkling her nose in distaste. She opens a window before waving the smoke out. “Sasha and Anastasia smoke like chimneys, it’s awful. The smell _alone._ At least you don’t have to worry that Sasha will try to corner _you_ after practice.” She shudders.

Yuuri grips his glass hard. “ _He did what_?”

“Oh, I kicked him in the balls,” says Mila breezily. “Lucky for him I had my hard guards on. He’s been a lovely coach ever since. Yuuri, don’t faint on me. You’re much heavier than Yura.”

“Sorry,” says Yuuri. He sets the glass down on one of the small tables in the balcony. “Just…” He shook his head. “I usually try not to drink so much in so little time.”

“It’s all right,” says Mila cheerfully. “Yakov doesn’t own a pole.”

Yuuri stares at her. “I… did not need that image in my head.”

Mila grins at him. “He was very impressed, you know. There’s even a pole dancing class once a week now. It’s really good for core strength, very popular with the swimmers.”

“I’m not hearing this,” groans Yuuri, and Mila breaks into peals of laughter.

“Yuuri!” calls Victor, popping his head through the doorway with a wide grin. His hair is already disheveled, and there’s a flush to his cheeks that makes Yuuri think he’s had more than his fair share of the vodka. The way his shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest is possibly another clue to the state of his inebriation. “There you are! Mila, stop stealing my fiancé.”

“Stop leaving him places,” retorts Mila.

“Yuuri!” sings Victor, stepping onto the balcony. “I missed you.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere!” protests Yuuri. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough,” says Victor, draping himself over Yuuri. “Mmm, you’re warm. Why is it so _cold_ on this balcony?”

“Because this is Russia, and you’ve unbuttoned your shirt,” says Yuuri patiently.

“Those two facts have absolutely _nothing_ to do with each other,” protests Victor. “Georgi has every television set to _Ironiya sudby_.”

“Oh, has it started?” asks Mila as she hops off her perch.

“Not you too,” groans Victor.

“What is it?” asks Yuuri.

“It’s a New Year’s tradition that _some_ of us don’t enjoy nearly as much as they should,” says Mila as she drapes herself over Victor. “Considering they’re also newly in love and should be happy to watch such a sweet story with their intendeds.”

Victor scoffs and reaches up to pull at Mila’s hair. Mila squeaks out a laugh and springs back up again, moving to pick up the discarded plates and glasses that litter the balcony.

“It’s a movie about a man who ends up flying to the wrong city, going to the wrong apartment, and falling in love with the right woman,” Victor explains to Yuuri. “It plays every year on New Year’s Eve and Georgi watches it every year and every year, the movie ends with Georgi soaking the sofa in both tears and spilled vodka, begging one of us to put him on a plane so that he can try to do the same thing. Which is a waste of perfectly good vodka and means no one else can sit on the couch without standing up wet.”

“Oh, Vityusha, stop making fun of him,” Mila scolds Victor, who doesn’t seem phased by the nickname at all.

“Not until one of you lets me put him on a plane so he can actually try it.”

“No,” says Mila firmly. “I’m going to watch the movie and monitor his vodka intake.”

“In other words, match it.”

“However you like,” says Mila primly before heading inside with her gathered debris.

Victor’s arms tighten around Yuuri and lowers his voice. “It’s all right, if you want to see the movie. It’s actually very good.” Victor leans in closer; when he speaks, his voice is deep and his breath tickles Yuuri’s ear. “I can whisper translations in your ear.”

Yuuri’s fairly sure that Victor’s _translations_ will be anything but actual _translations_.

“No, it’s all right. It’s… kind of much in there,” admits Yuuri.

Victor presses his nose into Yuuri’s hair. “You’re shivering, _solnyshko_.”

“It’s cold out here, and someone took my coat.”

“Mmm. It’s a nice coat.”

“I still think it makes me look short.”

“Don’t insult your coat,” says Victor. His breath is warm on Yuuri’s ear. “I have plans for you wearing that coat.”

“ _Vitya_.”

Victor starts kissing down from Yuuri’s ear to his neck, and then presses his nose and mouth into Yuuri’s shoulder as his arms tighten around Yuuri’s waist again. He holds still there, breathing, while Yuuri settles into the moment. He rests his head against Victor’s, one hand coming up so he can run his fingers through Victor’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” mumbles Victor into Yuuri’s skin.

Yuuri’s stomach turns a little. _Wait – he’s sorry? Aren’t we ignoring this? We’re ignoring this! We unspokenly agreed to ignore it! _

“It hasn’t been very fun for you, the last few days,” continued Victor. “Especially the filming. I know you don’t like such focused, close-up attention.”

Yuuri lets out relieved breath _. False alarm, ignoring recommences._ “It wasn’t so bad. At least we were outside in the sunshine.”

“Still,” says Victor, a bit bitterly. “It was putting on a show. Being _Victor Nikiforov_ , the famous figure skater who will bring Russia all the glory and accolades.”

“That’s who you are, though,” says Yuuri.

Victor goes quiet. “Is that how you see me?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “No. Not anymore.”

Victor lets out a long breath, and then holds Yuuri closer. “He’s right, you know. I forgot while I was in Japan what it was like to be _Russia’s Great Success_ , the illustrious Victor Nikiforov. I used to like being him.”

Yuuri’s not sure who “he” is, but… _I think you still do. Sometimes_.

“You being a celebrity never used to get in the way before,” says Yuuri carefully. “I know you’d rather have been skating.”

“Yes,” Victor agrees. He leans against the wall and pulls Yuuri against him. Victor rests his chin on Yuuri’s head. “Yuuri… my skating. What if—”

There’s a flutter in Yuuri’s stomach.

“No,” says Yuuri quickly. “It’ll be fine. You have your quad toe loop and your quad Lutz, the quad Sal looks really good now—”

“I haven’t landed it. Or the quad flip.”

“The flip’s not far behind. You’re going to blow everyone out of the water at Europeans, Vitya.”

“My free skate—”

“The way you’re stealing iPods? You’re gonna have music before the week is out,” says Yuuri, and then puts on the worst Russian accent he can manage. “Don’t forget, we’re in Russia now. You’re _Victor Nikiforov_ again. You’ve won that competition before anyone else even has their skates on.”

“Hmm!” snorts Victor. He shifts against Yuuri. “Your Russian accent is terrible.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“Oh?”

Yuuri moves back so he can see Victor’s face. Victor had sounded sad – and Yuuri can still see it in his eyes, and the corners of his mouth, which aren’t turned up very much at all.

_All right then. At least I know Victor won’t make fun of me, no matter what I say._

“ _Victor Nikiforov samyi krasivye mouschina parin v’mire, ya sobirayurs katat’sa na kon’kakh bryuki iz nyevo_."

There’s a moment where Victor’s face is frozen in expectation – and in that moment, Yuuri almost manages to convince himself that he’s said something truly obnoxious.

And then Victor bursts into laughter.

“That was _terrible_ ,” he gasps. “And who says I won’t skate the pants off you first?”

“Oh, thank God, I was afraid I’d said it wrong,” says Yuuri, relieved.

“Who taught you that? I know you didn’t learn it on your computer program.”

“Mila. Don’t be mad at her, I’m sure Yurio would teach me something worse.”

“You should let him. I’m curious what he’d tell you to say.” Victor nuzzles into Yuuri’s hair. “So is it true? Am I the most handsome man in the world?”

“Maybe,” says Yuuri, blushing furiously, despite the cold. “Is that really what Mila taught me to say?”

“I’m sure you know it is. As I’m sure you know, you don’t need to skate in order to get me to take off my pants.”

Yuuri groans. “I’ve created a monster.”

“Yes,” agrees Victor, his mouth hovering over Yuuri’s a moment before his kiss.

Victor’s mouth is cool and warm at the same time. He tastes like berries and citrus. His fingers  work their way under Yuuri’s sweater and shirt, desperately digging down to his skin, because Naked Victor always demands Naked Yuuri. Usually Yuuri is happy to oblige.

Usually obliging isn’t so problematic, but it’s _cold_ and there’s an entire apartment behind them full of people who Yuuri really, really wants to impress. Making out with Victor might get him warmer, but getting naked is not exactly in Yuuri’s game plan for the evening.

Well. Maybe not until much, much later.

“Vitya,” giggles Yuuri.

“I haven’t kissed you in forever,” pouts Victor.

“You kissed me before we left your apartment.”

Victor pauses. “ _Our_ apartment.”

Yuuri softens against him. “I know. It doesn’t feel much like mine yet.”

“You unpacked.”

“I know.” Yuuri breathes against Victor’s skin for a moment, wondering how to put it in words.

Thankfully, Victor doesn’t fill the space with words. It’s as if he knows that patience will give Yuuri the courage to keep speaking.

“It was a long time before Detroit felt like home.”

Victor’s chest expands with breath. “What changed it for you?”

“Phichit. He insisted we put up a shrine when we moved in together. I think that’s what really did it. I never believed it was permanent until then.”

Victor goes still. “Yuuri. This… this is permanent. You know that, don’t you?”

Yuuri hugs him tight. “Yes. _Yes._ I do.”

“Good.” Victor exhale almost sounds relieved. He nuzzles Yuuri’s hair. “Then you should decide where you’ll want to put it.”

“I know.” It’s more or less what Yuuri thought Victor would say. The best, most obvious place is in the living room, but Yuuri’s still not sure he wants it on display for anyone who comes by. The idea of having to explain its significance over and over doesn’t really appeal.

He also hasn’t decided if seeing it every day will make him feel better or worse for leaving his family and home behind again so soon.

“The boxes we mailed will be here in another week,” continues Victor.

It’s as quick as that… the idea of the boxes they’d sent from Japan arriving, with all the rest of Victor’s things, and all the things he’d insisted Yuuri bring.

_We’re really doing this. We’re really making a life together._

_We’re really getting married… ‘til death do us part…_

_I am not waiting until my funeral to meet Victor’s sister!_

Yuuri pushes Victor away, his hands gripping Victor’s arms to hold him apart. Victor makes a questioning, alarmed sound, but Yuuri’s somewhat inebriated head spins and it takes all his effort to push out the words rather than try to find a way to comfort his fiancé’s sudden worry.

“Victor, I’m sorry that you feel the need to keep me away from your family! As your biggest fan, I know how important they are to you, and I swear I will work harder to make sure that I do not disappoint them! Please forgive me!”

“Oookay,” says Victor slowly. Yuuri drops his hands, clenching his fists as they rest on his legs. “You think I’m… _embarrassed_ about you?”

Yuuri’s head snaps up; Victor looks more alarmed than anything else. “You didn’t want me to meet your brother! You haven’t even called your sister to let her know you’re back in Russia! What _else_ am I supposed to think?”

Victor rubs the back of his head. “I’m not exactly sure when I was supposed to call Zhenya. We’ve been very busy and it’s only been a few days.”

“You’ve mentioned Sergei half a dozen times in the last month,” Yuuri accuses. “And you never _once_ said he was your brother. You were deliberately hiding him from me!”

“To be fair,” says Victor, “Sergei’s always hidden himself first.”

Yuuri’s back is beginning to ache – but he can’t stop staring at Victor. “Vitya, I don’t think you understand the depths of my obsession. I spent three months trying to hack into Russian servers to find out your blood type.”

Victor blinks. “Wow. Maybe don’t admit that to anyone else.” He pauses. “Did it work?”

“No! But the point is – I was your biggest fan for years. I should have at least known Sergei’s name.” Yuuri covers his face. “Maybe I don’t deserve to meet them.”

Victor grabs Yuuri’s shoulders and hauls him back up. “Yuuri. Stop that.”

Yuuri can’t shake the guilt so easily. He takes a breath. _Okay. I have to know. If I know… then I can work on fixing it._ “Was it something I—?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Victor assures him firmly.

“Then… _why_ …?”

Victor doesn’t say anything; he closes his eyes and bends his head forward. Yuuri can see the grimace on his face, as if he’s struggling to find the words.

He’s still holding onto Yuuri, his arms around Yuuri’s waist, keeping him secure against him, as if Yuuri’s sheltering him from the cold night outside the balcony. It’s enough to reassure the last vestiges of worry that Yuuri’s been holding onto that Victor might be upset with him.

“I’m not hiding you,” says Victor finally. “But maybe… I’m hiding them.”

Yuuri takes a breath. It… almost makes sense. “Okay,” he says cautiously.

“I have a different relationship with Sergei than you do with Mari,” says Victor finally. “I think he has been jealous of me since I was born and was given our great-uncle’s name. To him, it was his by right, for being older.”

“You can’t control the name your parents gave you,” says Yuuri.

“And he knows that. That’s not the only reason. He was a teenager when communism ended. He remembers what it was like before we were just Russian, when we were part of the athletic royalty of the great and powerful Soviet Union. It wasn’t just my great-uncle, you know – my father played hockey, my mother was an ice dancer. There was a time when every major rink in the country had a Nikiforov on the ice in some capacity. Everyone knew my family. And Sergei… he liked that notoriety. He liked having strangers smile at him, slip him extra sweets or comics or let him into the clubs and places where others couldn’t go. He liked being the one with the Western clothes, the Western music, the Western treats that relatives brought back from their trips abroad. I was too young to notice. When the Soviet Union fell… a lot of what made his life _special_ went away, too. Suddenly, everyone had the Western clothes, the Western music, the Western candies – or no one did.”

“Oh,” said Yuuri. “I can see how that’d be hard for a kid to handle.”

“Not just that, though. The Nikiforovs – we’ve always been on the ice. Except for Sergei. So I’m still part of the great ice tradition of the Nikiforovs, the living legend with the notoriety and the admiring gazes of everyone else. And Sergei – isn’t. Not really.”

“Hmm.” Yuuri rests his head back on Victor’s chest. “I felt stupid, meeting him. He knew all about me, and I thought he was just your music composer.”

Victor lets out a wry laugh. “He’s that, too. He’s very talented, Sergei, more than he would admit to anyone. He brushes off the trip to Japan but I remember when he went – it was for an international competition and he came home with the grand prize. I don’t know why he’s never been popular outside of Russia. Sometimes, that’s just the way it goes. But he’s good. He’s very, very good. He meant it, he would compose for you next year, if you want. He composes for several other Russian skaters, he’s usually very busy in the months leading up to the competitive season – but he’s always prioritized my programs. He has always been supportive of me.” Victor’s hands drift up to Yuuri’s neck. “I’m not embarrassed for you to meet them. I’d like nothing better than to introduce you to every third cousin twice removed I know. I’m sorry that you thought otherwise for even a moment.”

The balcony is quiet except for the faint sounds of traffic, the noise from the party, and Yuuri’s brain coming to a screeching halt.

“Ah,” said Yuuri carefully, “what cousins?”

Victor goes extremely still.

“Nope,” says Victor, his voice strangely high and bright. “No cousins. Well, apart from Cousin Olga but she lives in Kiev and we haven’t seen her in years anyway.”

“Victor! We’re getting _married_. Who else isn’t listed on your Wikipedia page? Grandparents? Children? _Additional siblings_?”

“No children,” said Victor solemnly. “Well. Apart from the nephews.”

_“Nephews?!?!_ ”

Victor groans as the back of his head hits the wall. “I was going to seduce you on this balcony, too.”

Yuuri thinks of all the times Victor was patient with the triplets in Hasetsu. “Oh my God. I’m Uncle Yuuri. I’m an uncle, and you didn’t even _tell_ me.”

“I need more vodka,” Victor says to the ceiling.

“ _You_ need more vodka!”

“Oh, my, is that the time? We’re missing the movie, Yuuri. It’s a Russian tradition, we have to watch and make sure Georgi doesn’t drown himself in feels.”

Yuuri grabs Victor by the sides of his head and pulls his mouth down for a kiss. It’s as possessive and controlling a kiss as he can manage it, and luckily, Victor doesn’t protest too much. Maybe it’s the vodka, or that he knows he’s screwed up.

Either way, when Yuuri breaks the kiss with a pop, Victor is breathing hard. His hands rest on Yuuri’s wrists, holding him in place as surely as Yuuri is holding him.

“Tomorrow morning you’re going over your family tree with me,” says Yuuri firmly.

Victor nods. Yuuri’s pleased to see his eyes are dazed. “Okay. You’ll meet them all at Christmas, anyway. You’ll like Zhenya. Maybe better than you like me.”

“Right now I’d say that’s a strong possibility.”

Victor pulls Yuuri closer and leans until their foreheads touch. “I missed you today.”

Yuuri’s stomach churns.

“I missed you too,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “Stupid. We were together the whole time.”

“Tomorrow,” promises Victor. “We’ll have all day for just us.”

It’s the best plan Yuuri’s heard in days. “No practice?”

“Not on a Sunday – that’s the official rest day. No one will be there. But I have a key. We can go if you’d like, have some ice time to ourselves. I thought I’d go in for an hour or two. If you’d like to come with me.”

“You don’t need the rest?”

“I’m fine,” says Victor. “I rested for eight months, I’m all caught up.”

Yuuri’s smile is thin. There’s a part of him that feels uneasy. Even in the madly frantic days between Rostelecom and Barcelona, Victor had insisted on Yuuri taking his rest days. It strikes Yuuri as strange that he’d be ignoring them now. “All right. It’ll be nice to have the rink to ourselves.”

_And you shouldn’t be skating alone. You could get hurt and not have any way to get help. Celestino shouted himself hoarse the one time Phichit tried it._

“The real work begins on Monday. It’ll take that long to sleep off the hangovers, and then we can laugh as everyone avoids the spinning coaches.”

“Ugh, I feel sick just thinking about it,” groans Yuuri. “Maybe I’ll sit this drinking game out.”

“Just wait until the telecast,” says Victor, moving to take Yuuri’s hand. “You’ll want to be drinking when our part starts to play.”

Yuuri can’t really argue with that.

*

The combined forces of alcohol, their late night, and jet lag allow Yuuri and Victor to sleep until sunrise late in the morning.

Makkachin, however, isn’t as forgiving. She wakes Yuuri by standing on his chest and drooling. Victor slumbers on beside him, muttering incomprehensibly in French.

Yuuri’s too tired to even work up annoyance or confusion or anything else. He just sighs and crawls out of the bed while Makkachin follows, wagging her tail.

Ten minutes later, they’re stepping outside, Yuuri bundled in his new coat and Makkachin practically dancing as she moves her weight from foot to foot in her eagerness to be outside. The New Year’s morning air is chilly without being frigid, and the flakes that Yuuri saw earlier have left a thin layer of snow on the sidewalk. The street is normally busy with traffic and pedestrians, a bustling neighborhood full of life, even before the sun rises. But this morning – or at least this moment – the street is quiet and empty, with only a single car making its slow way down the street. There’s a few other pedestrians out, moving with careful confidence down the icy sidewalk. Yuuri can hear their boots crunching as they go, but it’s distant, muffled by the cold air.

It's a short walk to Makkachin’s favorite spot, and Yuuri waits while she does her business.

Saint Petersburg is beautiful, quiet and bright in the late morning, with the sun just rising over the river and the city beyond. The golden dome of Isaakievsky is a brilliant shine, glinting fiercely and defiantly against the still-dark sky at Yuuri’s back. The buildings around the church sit staunchly, heavy concrete and stately brick, solid and stern and unmoving, rising from the ground to claim their rightful places.

It’s worlds away from Hasetsu, sleepy and tucked into corners, folding in on itself amongst the trees and crevices that surround the bay. Hasetsu is ephemeral, wood and paper and water. Saint Petersburg is solidly stone and ice, just as beautiful.

Makkachin scratches her back feet against the pavement, and with a toss of her head, comes to sit and lean on Yuuri’s leg. He absently scratches her head, soft under his gloved hands.

“I could love it here,” Yuuri tells her, still looking at the view.

Makkachin woofs softly in response.

“I’ll try,” he promises, giving her an extra scratch, before tugging on her leash gently to lead her back home.

It’s obvious that Victor’s awake the moment he opens the door. The apartment is full of the smell of onions and tomatoes and eggs, and there’s the cheerful sound of something bouncy playing on the radio while Victor sings along in Russian.

“ _Tadaima_!” Yuuri calls as he throws the locks on the door. Makkachin wriggles until he gets on his knees to grab the towel Victor keeps near the door to wipe her feet.

Victor pauses in his singing to shout back, “ _S novym godom_ , Yuuri! I hope you didn’t eat breakfast yet.”

“No. You’re not making the soba noodles, are you?” Feet freshly cleaned, Makkachin bounds off into the kitchen, butt waggling happily.

“I thought we’d save them for lunch.”

“Me too.” Yuuri finishes removing his coat and shoes, slipping his feet back into the new blue slippers before padding into the kitchen. “I should have brought more than two packages, but I didn’t think we’d go through them so quickly.”

“Mmm,” says Victor non-committedly, sounding very pleased with himself.

Yuuri stops just inside the kitchen door. There’s a very large, very brightly wrapped box on the island. The paper is silver and gold striped, and the green bow is enormous. But what has Yuuri’s attention is the large tag hanging on the side that very clearly says _Yuuri_.

_Victor’s present_ , thinks Yuuri hazily, staring at the box. _What on earth did he get me that would need a box that big?_

“Do you want sausages? Or bacon?”

“Sausages,” says Yuuri, still staring at the box. _I forgot to wrap Victor’s present. I wonder if he has spare paper somewhere… I can’t ask him without him knowing why, though – and what if he’s insulted that I forgot to wrap it before? It’s not like I haven’t been in the apartment without him, I had plenty of chances._ “Phichit had a thing for American bacon, I can’t eat anything else now without it being subpar.”

“Good, because they’re nearly done.”

Yuuri keeps staring at the box. “What would you have done if I’d said bacon?”

“Explained that Russian bacon looks and tastes exactly like sausages.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “I’ll make tea.”

“Nope,” says Victor, pleased. He switches off the burner and covers the pan. “Presents first.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, eyes wide. “Um.”

To his credit, Victor doesn’t deflate or even look disappointed. “It’s all right if you didn’t get me anything, Yuuri – I know presents aren’t exchanged for New Year’s in Japan.”

“It’s not that,” Yuuri says quickly. “I just… I didn’t wrap it, I thought I’d do it here, but—"

Victor’s smile is brighter than the sunshine off Isaakievsky’s golden dome. He wraps his arms around Yuuri and kisses him lightly on the lips. “Do you really think I’ll love it any less for lack of wrapping?”

Victor’s arms are reassuring, but old habits die hard. “Maybe?” says Yuuri doubtfully.

“Besides,” says Victor, nosing down Yuuri’s cheek to his ear, “the best presents come unwrapped. And naked. And in our bed.”

“ _Vitya_.”

Victor sighs dramatically. “Always with the Vitya. It’s as if you don’t like it when I speak of all the lovely ways to make love to you, Yuuri.”

“Not in _public_.”

“We’re at home! Don’t tell me you think Makkachin minds.”

Yuuri groans. “Let me get your present. I’ll find a pillowcase or something.”

“In the hall closet!” offers Victor helpfully.

By the time Yuuri returns with his present under his arm, Victor has breakfast on the table. Eggs, sausages, tomatoes, spinach, and two triangles of nearly burnt toast. There’s mugs for tea – but no sign of the teabags. And no sign of the strawberry jam for the toast, either. There’s a bottle of honey in addition to the sugar jar and the small place with slices of lemon – but no other condiments.

“I wanted to make _syrniki_ ,” says Victor, “but there’s no cheese. I put it on the list; Marina will pick it up and I’ll make them next weekend.”

“Toast is fine,” Yuuri assures him as he sets the cloth-wrapped present on the table. “I’ll get the jam.”

“Wow!” Victor picks up the present and turns it over and over with a grin. [The wrapping is clearly one of his pillowcases](http://www.alyssaandcarla.com/2014/05/21/diy-sew-pillowcase/), a blue-and-golden paisley pattern that works well with the decorative folding, tying and tucking Yuuri’s done to keep it all together. It’s not terrible, though it’s a bit lopsided. Yuuri can already see where it’s getting loose under the knot in the middle where the ends of the pillowcase didn’t quite reach. “Yuuri, you just did this? I thought you were going to wrap it up in a pillowcase!”

“I did?” admits Yuuri, a bit sheepishly. “Don’t handle it too much, you don’t want it to fall apart before you unwrap it.”

Victor sets the present down carefully, and then pulls Yuuri to his chest for a kiss.

“I’ll admire it all through breakfast,” he promises him. “But you should open your box before breakfast gets cold!”

Yuuri’s not sure why it matters, but he pulls at the green bow anyway and lifts the lid. When he sees what’s inside, he loses his breath.

“ _Oh_ ,” he gasps softly. “ _Vitya._ ”

“I think I remembered everything,” says Victor enthusiastically. “You’ll have to tell me what I forgot, your mother said she’d send it as soon as she could.”

Yuuri begins lifting items out of the box. Some things are absolutely ridiculous, horrible snack foods that were Asian market staples even in the States: wasabi peas and sesame sticks that Yuuri both abhors and craves in his weaker moments. But the rest of the items: bottles of soy and teriyaki, ginger paste and sweet chili sauce. Ingredients and supplies that are much harder to find but absolutely necessary for the dishes he loves best. There’s even a few boxes of Pocky in flavors that Yuuri _knows_ aren’t sold anywhere but in Japan.

“You aren’t allowed to eat them all at once,” says Victor, already sounding smug. “I’m going to hide them as soon as you’re in the shower.”

“I’ll never shower again,” vows Yuuri to Victor’s amusement. He lifts out the canisters of sencha leaves and matcha powder. “This explains why you didn’t let me make the tea.”

“As much for me as it is for you,” says Victor, entirely too pleased with himself. “I don’t know how to make matcha like your mother does, though.”

“I can try,” says Yuuri, and peers into the box again.

With the tea and the Pocky removed, Yuuri can see the other things packed neatly into the box. Dried seaweed. Rice noodles. Bottles of mirin and pink pickled ginger. Bonito flakes and panko bread crumbs. Authentic Japanese rice. Half a dozen other ingredients that he knows his mother uses daily, and which he’d never been able to find in Detroit. The brands are ones Yuuri recognizes, even if they’re in small amounts and clearly made for a foreign market, with labels in English, Russian, and Arabic, plus others Yuuri doesn’t know by sight.

 And there in the center, as if it’s just another jar: _black sesame spread_.

Yuuri clutches the jar to his chest and stares at Victor with wide eyes. Victor beams.

“I love you,” gasps Yuuri. “ _So. So. Much._ ”

Victor looks as if he’s going to burst into hearts. “Three jars, Yuuri.”

Yuuri would be tempted to fall on his knees on the spot and suck Victor _dry_ , except…

“I don’t care if it ruins my diet,” he says, twisting until the jar opens with a pop. “I’m not eating anything else today but this on toast.”

“Oh?” Victor leans forward and rests his chin in his hand. “You’ll run out of it faster, if you do.”

“Worth it,” says Yuuri as he reaches for a knife and his toast.

Victor waggles his eyebrows as his voice turns seductive. “I thought maybe we could—"

“No,” says Yuuri firmly. He carefully transfers a dollop of the spread onto his toast, lovingly spreading it just right, careful to wipe the knife so that not a single speck is left behind. “Do not sully my spread with illicit suggestions, Vitya. This is the pure and innocent flavor of my childhood in toast form.”

Victor chuckles and reaches for his present. “My turn?”

Yuuri moves the present out of reach and then picks up the bottle of honey. “Eat first. I don’t want it to get dirty from the food.”

“Oh!” Victor’s eyes brighten. “Can I guess what it is?”

“If you want to try.” Yuuri drizzles the honey on his toast and takes a bite. He nearly melts with sheer pleasure on his chair.

_Best. Present. Ever._

It’s as they’re eating that the doubts start to creep up in the back of Yuuri’s mind.

_He obviously put a lot of thought into this_ , muses Yuuri. _And a lot of money, too – some of this stuff is really expensive, even in Japan. Maybe half of it was clearly purchased here, where it’d cost even more money._

_And maybe he’s right – maybe it’s just as much for him as it is for me. But he wouldn’t have bought any of it if he wasn’t trying to make sure I feel at home here._

Yuuri glances at the pillowcase and thinks of what’s wrapped inside. _I hardly spent anything on his gift – it’s not even all mine! How can my gift possibly match his?_

“Okay!” says Victor as soon as they’re done eating. Yuuri’s still savoring the last bite of the toast stolen from Victor’s plate. Victor reaches across the table for the pillowcase. “My turn.”

_Moment of truth_ , realizes Yuuri, momentarily pausing as he eats. He _could_ snatch the pillowcase away and hide in the back… but no.

_Victor’s going to love it,_ he tells himself firmly. _I thought that when I made it, and I think that now. I just hope he isn’t disappointed first._

“On the couch,” says Yuuri.

“Ooo,” says Victor, but promptly moves over to the couch. Yuuri crouches next to him, as if ready to flee.

It only takes a moment to remove the wrappings. Yuuri keeps his focus on Victor’s face. It’s clear that Victor’s excited about his present, from the way he can barely keep the smile from his face – but when he finally pulls the book out of the pillowcase, his expression erupts into a brilliant, ecstatic – if slightly confused – smile.

“Yuuri! What is this?”

The book is wide and overstuffed to the point that it won’t close flat. It’s easily two inches thick,[ bound together with a traditional Japanese stitch](https://www.google.com.sa/search?q=japanese+book+binding&safe=strict&rlz=1C1JZAP_enUS696US696&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjK4oj0_ovYAhXBXRQKHSC2A7sQ_AUICigB&biw=1920&bih=918) using ribbon over twine in a complicated geometric pattern. The cover is a thick, dark blue paper that has glitter embedded into it, and in the center, there’s a photograph carefully inserted in a small window, one of Yuuri’s favorites from the previous spring.

Victor runs his hands over the photograph. “I don’t remember posing for this photo.”

“The triplets took it. They agreed not to post it, though.”

It’s a lovely photo, even if Victor’s back is to the camera. He stands at the edge of the gardens outside the inn, looking over Hasetsu Bay. The spring colors are brilliant, all green and red and yellow, with a brilliant blue sky beyond. Cherry blossoms fall like snowflakes around where Victor leans forward against the fence line. The curve of his back is relaxed and casual, and he looks… content just to look at the lovely view.

“Are they all pictures of me?” asks Victor.

Yuuri shakes his head. “Just… open it? Please?”

Victor glances at him; it’s easy to see the concern under his delight, and it makes Yuuri squirm with nervous anticipation. Victor doesn’t comment on it, much to Yuuri’s relief; he simply opens the book.

The first page is mostly writing – Yuuri’s writing, weaving around smaller pictures of Victor in various poses, from the last year and even before. There’s a photo of Victor in what is now Yuuri’s Eros costume, a photo of him from the previous year’s Worlds, a photo of him wearing the original Stammi costume.

“Don’t read it now,” says Yuuri, wishing he could fast-forward through the next few minutes. “Just… keep turning pages, please.”

“Okay,” says Victor gamely.

The other pages aren’t quite so text-heavy – mostly, they’re photographs with captions, but there’s other things included, too. Napkins from the restaurants they’d been to. A schedule for the Ice Castle’s free skate times over the summer. Ticket stubs from the movie matinee Victor had taken the triplets to see. A program from Onsen on Ice, with a pocket holding a DVD.

“Yuuuuuuuri,” sings Victor, tapping the DVD. “What’s this?”

“Someone video-taped it,” admits Yuuri.

“You said you couldn’t find a copy! We could have used this to help you get ready for Regionals!”

“I didn’t know until a few weeks ago!” protests Yuuri. “And anyway, I think I did all right.”

Victor laughs and turns the page again. “This is _amazing_ , Yuuri. You made this?”

“Mostly. I was going to do the binding, but I kept messing it up. Mari gave up trying to teach me.”

Photographs – so many photographs. Not all of them are beautiful or even in focus. Victor clearly recognizes most of them from one Instagram or another, given the way he exclaims and calls out the name of the person who’d taken and posted them. There’s photographs of the horrific hot pot night in Beijing. Photographs of Yuuri flinging his arms in desperation around Victor before his performance at Onsen on Ice. Photographs of Yurio in the shady light of the Ice Castle, while Victor explains a jump sequence to him.

Victor lingers on Yuuri’s favorite page. The paper is light blue, and he’d spread glue on part of it and sprinkled it with sand – appropriate, since the photos are from their day at the beach. Laughing as they ran along the shore, giggling as they washed the sand out of their hair in the showers by the road. Makkachin, tongue hanging out of her mouth, as happy as Yuuri had ever seen her.

“I remember this day,” says Victor softly, running his fingers over the bumpy sand, gently enough that the sand doesn’t fall. “June – right after the assignments were announced, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” says Yuuri, his throat thick.

“This was a good day.”

“It was the best day,” says Yuuri firmly.

“The _best_?” Victor smiles up at him. “You and I both came back with sunburns so severe we couldn’t go into the onsen for a week.”

“The best,” repeats Yuuri, and takes a breath. “Because it was the day that I realized I liked you.”

The skin around Victor’s eyes crinkles with amusement. “ _That_ day? Yuuri, you left a dozen posters of me in your bedroom. I think you liked me _before_ that day.”

Yuuri shifts on the couch so that he’s sitting closer to Victor. “I liked Victor Nikiforov the skater. I admired him, I copied him, I wanted to skate exactly like him. I fell asleep looking at him and dreaming about the day we’d share the same ice. But this day at the beach”—Yuuri taps the page—“this was the day I realized that I liked _you_. Vitya. Even if I didn’t know to call you that yet. You weren’t Victor Nikiforov anymore to me. You weren’t the guy whose posters I collected or whose programs I memorized or whose costume I wore. You were just… _you_. And I liked… you.”

Victor sucks in a breath. He blinks rapidly for a moment, his eyes bluer and shinier than Yuuri’s seen in a while.

“Yuuri,” he breathes, just before he leans over to kiss him.

Victor’s lips are soft, gentle, hesitant. Victor’s mouth is warm from his black tea, bitter and strong. Yuuri loves the flavor of it in Victor’s mouth even if he hates it any other time. Besides, the way Victor kisses him, dragging one hand into Yuuri’s hair while the other reaches for the strip of skin between his shirt and his pants, Yuuri can’t be bothered about _tea_.

Victor’s hand stays cupped around Yuuri’s cheek when he breaks away. “It’s beautiful. I can’t believe you made this for me!”

“It wasn’t just me,” apologized Yuuri. “The ticket stubs, the programs, the photographs – everyone contributed something. It’s not really just from me.” Yuuri ducks his head a little, but Victor quickly tucks a finger under Yuuri’s chin and lifts it back up.

“And I’ll thank them later. But _you’re_ the reason I have it at all.”

Victor kisses him again. The book slips from his lap, hitting Yuuri’s knees – but he doesn’t care.

“I hoped you’d like it,” says Yuuri breathlessly.

“I _love_ it,” Victor assures him. “Did it really take you so long to like me, Yuuri?”

“So long… that was June! You’d only been in Hasetsu for two months.”

“I fell in love with you at Sochi,” says Victor dramatically.

Yuuri thumps his arm. “You did _not_. And anyway, I don’t remember Sochi.”

“It’s true! Did you include those pictures? I can show you the very one where I thought, ‘ _Yes, this is the boy who I will marry’._ ”

“Liar,” says Yuuri fondly. “You thought, ‘ _Yes, this is the boy who I will take to bed, or I would if he wasn’t so drunk he can’t possibly give consent’_.”

“My interpretation is much more… ah. _Rytsarno._ Gentlemanly?”

“Sure,” laughs Yuuri. “I’m sorry it’s not as grand as my box.”

Victor kisses Yuuri again. “What? It’s better.”

“But – all those ingredients, Vitya! You spent so much money, and all I did was paste a few photographs in a book!”

“And we’ll enjoy the contents of that box very much, but they’ll all be gone by summer. Whereas I can look at _this_ memory any time I like.” Victor runs his fingers over the book again. “Yuuri. I love your present. It’s the nicest thing I’ve ever received at New Year’s. Please stop deriding it, or thinking it’s worth less to me because all you spent on it was time.”

Victor looks so earnest and hopeful – Yuuri can’t help but trust him.

_Okay. Okay_.

“Okay,” he says.

Victor grins and kisses him again.

It’s a little while later when Yuuri murmurs into Victor’s skin, “Did you really fall in love with me in Sochi?”

Victor doesn’t shift. He just holds Yuuri closer. “Yes? No? Maybe you have the right of it. I don’t remember. But I know when I fell in like with you.”

“Oh?”

Victor presses a kiss to the top of Yuuri’s head. “Of course. As it turns out, it was the same day you fell in like with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  Dobriy vecher (Russian) – Good evening  
> Ona zdes’ (Russian) - She’s here!  
> Vot suka. Ona vmeste so svoim hokkeistom? (Russian) - That bitch. Did she bring the hockey player?  
> Gde oni? (Russian) - Where are they?  
> Dō shiyō! (Japanese) - Oh my God  
> Victor Nikiforov samyi krasivye mouschina parin v’mire, ya sobirayurs katat’sa na kon’kakh bryuki iz nyevo (Russian) – Yuuri means to say, “Victor Nikiforov is the handsomest man in the world, and I'm going to skate the pants off of him.” But literally, it’s more like he’s “skating the pants out of him.” Translating idioms is a tricky thing, friends.  
> Tadaima (Japanese) – I’m home  
> S novym godom (Russian) – Happy New Year  
> Rytsarno. (Russian) - Chivalrous.


	14. Heavy Clouds, No Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very pleased to announce that regular posting will commence starting with this chapter. I haven't decided on weekly or bi-weekly; if you have a preference or opinion, feel free to voice it in the comments. :) And yes, there are a total of 43 chapters, plus an epilogue. The final wordcount will be over 350K, so you're hereby warned.
> 
> The chapter title is a reference to the song [“Heavy Clouds, No Rain”](https://youtu.be/1T0tJnaUhU8) by Sting, mostly because the mood of the song really matches this chapter. Plus, I just like the song. Don’t feel as though you need to listen to the song as you read – it won’t match – but do listen to the song when you have the chance, and tell me if you think it fits the mood, too.

** Chapter Fourteen: Heavy Clouds, No Rain **

Life settles into an uneasy routine.

Wake in the morning, run a few miles on the treadmills in the basement, back upstairs to shower and eat and dress. Yuuri closes his eyes on the treadmill sometimes and tries to pretend he’s running down the hills in Hasetsu, carrying a load of fish on his back. It doesn’t work very often, especially when he starts veering to the side a little bit, but he doesn’t stop.

It’s only a momentary lapse, anyway. Yuuri likes waking up in the morning, even if it’s pitch-black outside and so warm under the thin blankets that he’s always damp with sweat. Victor’s bed is comfortable and soft, and no matter how late Victor gets in, or how they’ve shifted during the night, there’s always some part of Victor that is touching Yuuri when he wakes. Yuuri likes knowing that Victor reaches for him in his sleep. Even better, he likes the moments before Victor’s eyes blink open to look for Yuuri, when Yuuri can watch him and feel the excited beating of his heart, the inability to keep still for realization that even after several months of _this_ , he’s still happy.

Sometimes they wake on time, and never make it down to the treadmills at all.

“It’s still cardio,” says Victor cheerfully. Yuuri still plans to lie to the trainers about the details of his morning’s workout.

(“I ran two miles,” Yuuri tells his trainer, who works with the hockey players and whose neck is thicker than his head. It would probably work, if Victor wasn’t _right next to him_ , telling his own trainer – a petite woman who Yuuri thinks was a gymnast and can still bench press both of them – “I’m so sorry, Svetlana, I didn’t run because Yuuri and I made love instead!”)

The two hours that follow on the ice are both exhilarating and exasperating. Yuuri can’t help the thrill every time he enters the rink, sees the tall windows and the crest, familiar from the magazine articles and television retrospectives that he’d watched with Yuuko growing up. There’s a part of him that wants to pinch himself in case he’s dreaming. Forget being engaged to the man: _Katsuki Yuuri is training on the same ice as Victor Nikiforov!_

The rest of him knows no amount of pinching is going to wake him up from the low-level nightmare of actually training with Victor Nikiforov.

“Yuuuuuuri! Keep your chin up when you—”

“VITYA, _fokus!_ ”

“Yuuuuri! You’re putting too much of your weight on your back edge, try to—”

“VITYA, _fokus!_ ”

“Yuuuuuri! That was amazing! But you need to—”

There’s a stream of aggravated Russian across the ice. Yuuri doesn’t need anyone to translate what Yakov shouts across the ice. It’s easily understood in the way every other trainer at the rink grins and shakes their heads, or rolls their eyes and shrugs their shoulders.

Victor smiles a bit sheepishly every time, and goes back to work.

After the ice: weight training with Yuuri’s trainer, Ivan, who speaks no English and either doesn’t understand when Yuuri tries his rudimentary Russian on him, or pretends he doesn’t. Since Yuuri is usually protesting how much weight he’s willing to lift or press or shove or carry, Yuuri suspects Ivan’s stubbornness is supposed to be a form of bullheaded support. Yuuri grunts through most of it, while Victor chats cheerfully to Svetlana the gymnast.

“ _Kharasho_ ,” grunts Ivan when they’re done, slapping Yuuri’s back hard enough that Yuuri _knows_ the man means for him to stumble.

Yuuri doesn’t stumble. He’s caught off-guard, drinking from his water bottle, watching as Victor tells Svetlana what is surely an impossibly ridiculous story with wide hand motions. He bends forward and nearly chokes on the water as it surges to the back of his throat.

But he doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t even stop drinking his water. Instead, he lets his eyes slide to Ivan’s reflection in the mirrors.

It’s a very tiny seed of satisfaction to see the surprise on Ivan’s face. The satisfaction blooms when Ivan smirks at him, obviously impressed.

_Take that_ , thinks Yuuri.

“Tomorrow,” says Ivan in the terrible English that is still better than any of the other trainers’, “two times crunches.”

The cafeteria isn’t very busy when they arrive for lunch; it seems Yurio is not the only athlete to be taking the week off practice. Anna Anatolyevna watches as Yuuri fills his tray with food, nodding as his hand hovers over various dishes. It might be approval, or just his imagination.

She still removes a quarter of what he’s put on his tray.

Yuuri follows Victor to a table for two by the window. The view of the river and gardens is beautiful, even in winter, but Yuuri quickly realizes why they haven’t sat there before. It’s _freezing_ so close to the glass, and he thinks longingly of his coat, hanging uselessly in his locker on the other side of the complex.

“We’re not sitting with Mila or Georgi?” he asks, shivering.

“I know you wanted the sunshine,” explains Victor, twining his ankle around Yuuri’s. “And maybe I wanted you all to myself for a little bit. I have to share you with everyone else all morning and afternoon.”

“Most of it, anyway,” says Yuuri, thinking of Victor dashing across the ice, while Yakov fumed in the background. “And you’re the who skipped Pilates this morning.”

“I’ll try Pilates next time,” promises Victor. “I keep forgetting how long these interviews take. Requests will stop coming in once I’ve started competing, though.”

Yuuri’s not so sure. He taps his fork against the shiny mound of rice Anna Anatolyevna let him keep.

“And we’ll have ballet this afternoon together!” says Victor happily. “Maybe Yulia will let us dance a duet.”

“ _Pas de deux_ ,” Yuuri corrects automatically. He takes a deep breath and just blurts it out. “Yulia wants me to switch to Lilia’s class.”

“Hmm!” There’s an expression on Victor’s face that could be described as annoyed, but Yuuri decides after a moment is just the expression Victor wears when he’s thinking seriously about something. “You could. Yura still takes lessons with Lilia twice a week, and you’re at least as good as he is. My prime concern is that your body has different requirements for rest and rehabilitation than Yura’s.”

“So does yours,” says Yuuri. “Probably more than me.”

He’s only thinking of the extra hours Victor’s put on the ice. _You didn’t even take New Year’s Day, Victor. When do you rest? Are you going to drive yourself into the ground before you even get to the Europeans?_

Victor stares at him for a moment.

_Oh, shit_ , realizes Yuuri. _I just told him he’s old._

“I mean you’re working harder than you were,” he says hastily. “It’s not like we have a hot springs in the apartment. I miss sitting in the baths with you; it was a nice way to end the day.”

Victor’s smile is a little bit brittle. “There’s a sauna in the basement. I’ll have to show you. It’s not the same, but it might work.”

“Great!” says Yuuri with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. He went to a sauna once, years ago during a competition in Eastern Europe somewhere. It’d only served to make him homesick for Japan. “It’s a date.”

Victor grins at him. “Okay.”

“Oh, you _are_ adorable, aren’t you?”

Victor’s and Yuuri’s heads turn to the interloper almost at the same time. He’s tall, with incredibly muscular arms and chest, and his jacket is tight around his biceps. He leans into Yuuri and rests his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri tries to lean away, but the man’s hand just follows him.

“Kolya,” says Victor coolly.

“Vitya, he’s precious. I see why you haven’t introduced me before. Could you find me one too?”

“No,” says Victor flatly. His expression is a tense sort of livid. Yuuri tightens his ankles where they’re wrapped around Victor’s, just for reassurance. To his relief, Victor does the same instead of pulling away. “Yuuri’s one of a kind.”

“Mmm. Well, Yuuri, if the ice ever stops working for you, come along to the gymnastics studios – I’d _love_ to see what you could do with a horizontal bar instead of a vertical one.”

Victor’s gaze is stormy. “I’m sure there’s plenty of FIG judges who would say the same about you, Kolya.”

Kolya’s eyes flash.

“How’s your free skate coming along, Vitya?” he asks, dropping all pretense at being polite. “I couldn’t help but overhear the music the other night while you were practicing. Horribly bouncy stuff, are you sure you’re up to something so… _energetic_ and youthful? _So_ glad I don’t have to put up with that artistic nonsense.”

_Music?_ wonders Yuuri. _When did Victor find his music? He never said anything._

Victor’s mouth opens, ready for a retort.

“Kolya,” says Georgi, appearing behind Kolya and clapping an arm over the back of his shoulders, “just the man. I need help with this translation, you know English idioms better than I do. _Ya v’ tebya vlyubilsya bez uma_?”

“You fell in love without a mind? That’s horrible, you can’t say that to a girl,” says Kolya. The sudden switch in focus is almost startling, all his bite turned into indignation for Georgi’s poor seduction skills in English. He doesn’t look back as Georgi steers him away to a nearby table, where they sit and fiddle with Georgi’s phone, arguing lightly with each other in a strange hash of Russian and English.

Mila almost instantly takes Kolya’s place, though instead of looming over Yuuri, she leans over and plucks a green bean from Victor’s tray.

“Stop glowering, Vitya, people will think you’re angry,” she says cheerfully, popping the green bean in her mouth.

Victor’s face is still stony, and his eyes dart back and forth between Kolya and Yuuri. “I’m not angry.”

“Of course not,” agrees Mila. “And neither is Kolya.”

Victor folds up his napkin and shoves it back onto his tray. There’s a brief moment where Yuuri sees Victor’s jaw clench, and then… he’s smiling at Yuuri again. “Are you done eating? I’ve lost my appetite.”

Mila sighs. “In _that_ case.” She picks up the entire plate of green beans and heads over to where Georgi and Kolya are still talking over his phone.

“Sure. Let’s go,” says Yuuri, but he slips a couple of apples into his pockets on their way out of the cafeteria.

He’s not surprised when Victor leads them to a back corner in the athlete’s lounge, where there’s a set of worn, threadbare couches in a forgotten nook that keeps them safe from view. Yuuri already suspects they’re a popular location for impromptu naps, because this is the first time he’s seen them empty.

Victor isn’t content to sit; he immediately pulls Yuuri down so they’re lying snuggled up next to each other. It’s comfortably dim in the lounge’s corner, and Yuuri’s nerves are still jarred from the confrontation in the cafeteria. The couches are wonderfully soft and relaxing, and Yuuri’s eyes start to drift closed. Victor pushes his nose into Yuuri’s hair and breathes deeply.

“Sorry,” he says after a few minutes. “That was stupid of me.”

Yuuri makes a quiet noise in his throat, neither agreeing or disagreeing. “He did come on a bit… forcefully. Who was he?”

“Nikolai Usanov. Men’s gymnastics. Most of them train in Moscow, but he—" Victor cuts himself off and rolls to his back. He covers his face with the hand not trapped under Yuuri’s head. “ _Blyad_.”

Yuuri pushes himself up, and with his arm now free, Victor covers his face with both hands. “What? Vitya—”

“His husband,” mumbles Victor into hands. “That’s why he trains here and not in Moscow. He’s married to Alexei Starikov.”

“ _Oh_.” Yuuri recognizes the name. “The Russian bronze medalist—"

Yuuri doesn’t say, _Whose place at Europeans was given to Victor instead._

“Yes.” Victor bites out the word, and then releases a deep sigh. “All right. It’s fine. Don’t worry – he and Alyosha are notorious flirts but also very committed to each other. He wasn’t trying to seduce you as much as he was trying to rattle me. It won’t work.”

Yuuri’s not so sure it hasn’t – Victor looks fairly rattled – but he’s not going to say it to Victor. “You’ll just have to show him you’re not rattled by having the best free skate on the ice, that’s all.”

Victor laughs and pulls down his hands. He looks a little less upset, at least, but what worries Yuuri is that the laughter doesn’t sound genuine.

It sounds _worried_.

“I will, won’t I?”

Yuuri nods, determined to keep a bright face. “I’m really looking forward to seeing it. It’s going to be wonderful, I know. I can’t remember the last time you skated to something really high-energy.”

Victor pauses. “I’m sorry. I know I didn’t tell you, but I was thinking I’d surprise you at Europeans. If that’s all right?”

_Oh_. Yuuri’s heart twists a little bit. _Surprise me because… you want to surprise me?_

_Or because you don’t think it’ll be ready until the very last moment?_

Yuuri rallies before he opens his mouth. “Of course it is – I love being surprised by you, you know that.”

Victor pulls Yuuri in close for a hug. “Good. Then I’ll keep it a surprise.”

“I can’t wait,” Yuuri whispers, just as Victor’s mouth closes over his.

*

Yulia frowns when Yuuri politely declines the move to Lilia’s class.

The only thing that makes her disappointment a little easier to bear is the way she side-eyes Victor, who is at the barre, swinging his leg back and forth to loosen his hip joints.

_As if she knows he didn’t approve_ , thinks Yuuri.

“Ballroom,” she says finally. “You need something that will challenge you, Yuuri, and I cannot do so in this class. I know you’ve studied different dance styles before—”

There’s a cough from behind Yuuri that sounds incredibly suspicious. He feels the flush burning in his cheeks.

“—it’s very important to study other styles of dance. You never know what will be useful when translated to the ice.”

“Look at Christophe,” agrees Victor.

Yulia glares right down her nose at him. “This is for you as well, Victor Andreyevich! When was the last time you learned something new in front of a mirror?”

Victor’s eyes look devilish. “As a matter of fact, that also involved looking at Christophe.”

“ _Ahhhhh!_ ” yells Yuuri, just as Yulia shouts, “ _Don’t answer that!”_

Victor grins at them, somehow still looking entirely innocent. “I think ballroom is an _excellent_ idea, Yulia, thank you! I’ll look into it today.”

“Of course you will,” sighs Yulia, and she gently nudges Yuuri to the barre.

Yuuri leans toward Victor as Yulia begins counting out beats in French.

Because as much as he doesn’t _want_ to think about it…

“Vitya,” he hisses. “You told me you and Chris—"

“Makeup tutorial,” says Victor reassuringly. “He is very good with eyeliner.”

Yuuri’s read enough RPF that he’s perfectly content with this answer. Some fantasies are better left to the internet.

*

Afternoon skate begins with Georgi taking the ice for himself so he can run through his new free skate program. Victor, Mila, and Yuuri watch from the boards. He hasn’t changed the music or his costume, and the bulk of his choreography is the same, too.

But the mood is different, as is the make-up, which has been discarded. Georgi debuted the new version of _Carabasse_ at Russian Nationals, but it’s clear he hasn’t committed it to muscle memory, and the alterations is his gestures and a few of the choreographic elements are still in flux. The program is still frantic and furious – but it’s no longer the anger of a heartbroken lover bent on revenge. It’s the determination of a man trying to escape, trying to break free of something that’s holding him from his past.

“I laughed, you know,” says Mila quietly while they watch him go over the program. Each time, Georgi skates it better. “When I saw him perform this at the Cup of China. It was just… so _ridiculous_.”

“The makeup,” remembers Victor.

“Among other things. But this…” Mila sighs and rests her chin on her hand. “I love it.”

“If he’d skated this in Beijing, I’m not sure I would have even been on the podium,” admits Yuri as Georgi lands a quad toe double flip combination.

Victor only smiles.

It’s Georgi’s free skate that makes Mila cry. It hadn’t been ready for Nationals, so Georgi will debut it at Europeans. The music is the same, though the arrangement has changed. Now it’s purely instrumental, innocent and sweet. Georgi skates from pure delight and the soaring sort of pleasure that comes with new beginnings.

Yuuri can’t take his eyes from him.

_First love_ , realizes Yuuri, watching and remembering what Mila had said about his having a new girlfriend.

Next to him, Mila isn’t even able to _breathe_.

“Oh,” she says under her breath when Georgi finishes the full program for the first time. “ _Georgi_.”

“Definitely wouldn’t have had silver,” says Yuuri. “I’m really, really glad I don’t skate in Europeans.”

“But I will,” says Victor thoughtfully. “Why he didn’t debut this program at Russian Nationals?”

“He wanted to,” says Mila with a shrug. “But there wasn’t enough time to remix the music. Apparently there was _someone_ who demanded that the composer create two entirely brand-new programs before January, and he took priority.”

It’s such a pointed dig that the meaning isn’t lost on anyone.

_I guess Sergei composes for Georgi, too,_ thinks Yuuri. Victor doesn’t even look embarrassed, though he does look thoughtful as he watches Georgi on the ice.

Mila continues. “I like this arrangement so much better. Even his theme is different.”

“What is it?” asks Yuuri.

“New beginnings,” says Victor and Mila at the same time, and they chuckle. Yuuri smiles.

_That’s appropriate. New beginnings all around._

Yakov shouts at them in Russian, the words bouncing off the rafters. Mila and Victor quickly straighten and hop on the ice; Yuuri hesitates at the boards until Yakov groans and shouts again in English.

“What, you’re here to observe? Go on, warm up!”

“Sorry,” gasps Yuuri, scrambling to catch up.

“You should remember to use English more, Yakov!” Victor calls out good-naturedly.

“It’s all right, I need to work on my Russian,” says Yuuri quickly, sure that Yakov’s head is going to pop off his shoulders. “Valentina said something about a tutor.”

“Excellent idea,” Victor agrees. “I can help you study!”

Georgi nods. “Love is an excellent motivator for learning a language.”

Mila bursts into giggles. “I don’t think Victor would teach him the right vocabulary for figure skating.”

“Vitya! With me!” shouts Yakov – and then helpfully repeats it in Russian, enunciating so clearly that it’s obvious he’s doing it entirely for Yuuri’s benefit.

“See, you’re learning already,” said Victor. He leans in for a quick, warming kiss. “I’ll see you at the end of the session for our private time, Yuuri.”

“Right,” agreed Yuuri, blushing a bit. Victor’s easy way with romantic contact is as welcome as it is a little bit embarrassing.

Mila grins at him. “What I wouldn’t give for Yura to be here and start yelling about public displays of affection.”

Yuuri think he’ll like the afternoon sessions; they’re quieter than the mornings. Everyone is a little more tired, a little more introspective, a little more willing to focus so much on themselves that they forget anyone else is on the ice at all.

Well. _Almost_ everyone.

“Yuuri! Keep your chin up higher when you’re landing, it’ll go smoother and you’ll be less likely to stumble.”

Yuuri can ignore Victor when he needs to. He’s got long experience in putting other people’s proximity out of his head – even if that person if Victor Nikiforov. He might not be very good at it during competition – but during practice, it’s easy.

“Yuuri! Your free leg was sloppy on the spiral, pay attention to where you’re holding it.”

Well. Easier for _Yuuri_.

“Yuuri!”

“Yuuri!”

“Yuuri!”

Yakov’s jaw clenches and grinds every time Victor leaves his own practice to come talk to Yuuri, which happens so frequently Yuuri can’t even blame him.

_At least he’s not shouting anymore,_ thinks Yuuri when Victor comes skating over for what must be the thousandth time. On the far side of the rink, Yakov reaches for a bottle of clear liquid. Yuuri hopes it’s only water.

“Vitya,” Yuuri scolds Victor, “You can’t keep coming over here. Yakov’s going to kill you!”

“I’ll stop, I’ll stop!” he promises.

He does.

“Yuuri!”

For a little while.

“Yuuri!”

At least Yurio is in Moscow; Yuuri doesn’t have to think hard to know what he’d say. It almost stings to realize that Yuuri would likely agree with him.

“I never thought Victor would be possessive,” says Sasha the jump coach from the boards, where he’s been watches Yuuri with keen eyes, even as he coaches Mila through triple axels.

“He’s not possessive,” defends Yuuri, because it’s one thing to privately agree with Yurio. It’s another to admit it. “He’s _attentive_.”

Victor’s voice floats across the ice. “Yuuuuuri! Back to work!”

“If you say so,” says Sasha doubtfully. He doesn’t speak to Yuuri during practice again.

At least, not during that session.

*

By the end of the week, Yuuri has the hang of things. Morning ice, after-ice training with weights. Lunchtime giggles with Victor, followed by cuddles and kissing in whatever secluded space they can find.

Afternoon ballet or yoga or Pilates with Mila, who has a complicated plan for their activities and a willing participant in Yuuri. There’s even time blocked for Russian lessons in the basement, where there are classrooms set up for the teenagers who use tutors instead of attending the high schools in the city.

It’s busy and active and Yuuri would love if it he wasn’t so exhausted by the end of the day.

He’d love it even better if Victor would come home and be exhausted with him.

“Just an hour or two, _solnyshko_ ,” Victor assures him every day. Sometimes, Yuuri thinks he even believes it when he says it. But Victor’s never home before nine, three hours after Yuuri’s walked in the door. Yuuri hopes he doesn’t spend most of that time on the ice.

Judging by the number of bandages they go through every day, he’s probably hoping in vain. How Victor manages to get up and continue skating – and do so without hurting himself more – Yuuri doesn’t know. It’s been just over a week, and Victor hasn’t had a rest day since the day they arrived in Saint Petersburg. Even New Year’s Day saw them at the rink for a few hours, though neither of them did anything more strenuous than a change-foot sequence.

_Christmas_ , Yuuri tells himself. _He’s already said he’ll take Christmas as a rest day._

_I hope that’s enough._

After eight days of straight training, however – even if some of the days were lighter than others – Victor still seems to have endless energy.

“I won’t be so long tonight,” Victor assures Yuuri the night before Christmas. “Yakov wants to go home. I don’t know why, it’s not even his holiday.”

“Because sometimes I like to see the inside of my own house, Vitya!” Yakov shouts from across the rink.

“Two hours,” Victor promises. “Three at the most.”

“It’s all right,” Yuuri assures him. He’s still riding a high from his own practice; maybe that’s why for once, he actually believes Victor when he says he’ll be home early. _Early_. It’s almost a joke at this point. Yuuri’s tempted to ask if he can stay, because he doesn’t want to leave the rink just yet.

_I still can’t believe I landed them!_

But Victor doesn’t ask, and Yuuri doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries with an offer.

_Even if it was a fluke – and it was definitely a fluke – just knowing I’ve done it once is reassuring._

“Maybe I can stop by that cell phone store on the way and finally get a SIM card,” continues Yuuri. The prospect doesn’t even sound daunting, not with the feel of a solid landing under his feet. “Or a haircut. Any suggestions?”

Victor’s smile is genuine, at least. “On Christmas Eve? I wouldn’t try either. Go home, put your feet up. We’ll have all weekend to do all that. You deserve a break after today!”

Yuuri grins. “I still can’t believe I landed them. Quad Lutz, triple toe – _with Tanos_. You saw them, right? You’re not just saying you did?”

“Yuuuuri! Of course I saw it!”

There’s a grunt from Yakov’s direction; the irritation is probably confirmation that Victor’s not even lying.

“It was a fluke,” says Yuuri, proud and sheepish and happy to ignore the blister that’s surely forming on his ankle, given how it stings with every step. “No telling if I’ll land them tomorrow.”

“Or Monday,” Victor reminds him.

Yuuri grins. “Oh, right. Tomorrow, we’re going to your sister’s.”

“And I have the whole day off,” Victor adds. “I _promise_.”

“Good, you need the rest, too,” says Yuuri. He leans over the boards until he can whisper in Victor’s ear. “Not that I really want to spend the day with you _resting_ , Vitya.”

“Oooo!” coos Victor. Yuuri pulls back, laughing. “We can skip my sister’s. She won’t notice.”

“Vitya!” barks Yakov. “I’d like to go home sometime!”

“I like the way you say my name better,” Victor tells Yuuri, who just grins back at him.

Yuuri watches Victor shake off the roles of fiancé, of coach, of roommate, as he skates to center ice and becomes Victor Nikiforov, Russia’s Living Legend, once again.

Every moment Yuuri watches Victor train with Yakov is like being twelve again and getting a stolen glimpse of the untouchable perfection he saw on television. Victor is so focused, Yuuri’s sure Victor is barely even aware of Yuuri watching.  At least, Victor never shouts out a goodbye when Yuuri does leave the rink.

_I guess it’s good that I don’t distract him when I’m not on the ice with him. Everyone knows by now that I’m too much of a distraction the rest of the time._

The problem with six hours of daylight is that by the time Yuuri steps out of the complex and stands at the top of the steps, waiting for Pavel to bring the car around, the darkness makes him feel like he’s going home so much later than six in the evening.

Yuuri’s exhaustion doesn’t help with the disconnect. The giddiness of having landed the new quad has worn off a little, and the wide grin that he thought he’d never manage to wipe from his face has settled into a softer smile of satisfaction.

Sure, the Lutz was a little bit under-rotated, and sure, he’d stumbled and two-footed the landing on the toe loop, and it was going to need a _lot_ of work if he had any intention of trying the combo in competition… but he’d _landed_ it. On his feet. No hands on the ice.

_Fluke_ , Yuuri reminds himself. _Fluke, fluke, fluke._

It doesn’t matter. Yuuri feels like celebrating.

_I know – I’ll make dinner for Victor. It’s not a win so kastudon’s out, but I can make something else using the ingredients he gave me for New Year’s, and it’ll be ready by the time he’s home._

It’s domestic in a way that scares Yuuri, if he thinks about it too hard. It’s too much like what he thought his life would end up being: a retired figure skater staying at home while Victor was out bringing home gold. But one of the things he misses about Hasetsu is being able to sit and relax with not just Victor, but his entire family at the end of the day.

_There’s chicken in the fridge, I saw it this morning. I’ve got the dashi and the soy sauce, and I think there’s onions. Lots of things I can do with those._

Two sessions with a Russian tutor have paid off; Yuuri runs over the language he needs before trying it out. The biggest problem he has so far is saying the Russian words instead of the English ones, which both infuriates and amuses his tutor. “ _Izvenitza_ , Pavel?” 

Pavel seems to perk up. “ _Da_?”

“ _Magazin_?” Surely there’s a grocery store somewhere nearby, even if it’s only a small one.

“ _Da da da_ ,” says Pavel, in the nonchalant way that always sounds so dismissive to Yuuri’s ears. He settles back in his seat, already planning.

_Okay, I’ve got chicken and onions and ramen at home. I’ll need vegetables. Mushrooms or green beans. I wonder if they’ll have snap peas or bok choy? They always had stuff like that in Detroit, even out of season. I wonder if it’s the same here? Maybe I could use carrots instead?_

The excitement Yuuri felt earlier twists a little bit as it refocuses. Cooking was never Yuuri’s specialty – but there had been a kitchen in the dormitory. He and Phichit had been ridiculous levels of poor and meal plans were too expensive. They’d both craved the familiar foods of their childhood and were walking distance from a good, cheap Asian grocery. They’d learned how to make do with what they could afford with their pooled money.

Not exactly an issue any longer – not with an entire pantry of ingredients, courtesy of Victor’s New Year’s box.

The grocery is tiny. It’s busy but not outrageously so, and most people there have the harried look of someone who forgot to purchase the one vital ingredient and are on missions to purchase that one thing only. It’s less difficult than he’d have thought to navigate the aisles –many of the signs and items have labels in English as well as Russian. Yuuri doesn’t recognize the brands of soy or ginger paste on display, but when he sees the little plastic tub of Phichit’s favorite brand of green curry – the one his mother occasionally sent out in bulk – Yuuri can’t help the grin. He grabs one and throws it in his basket.

_Coconut milk,_ he remembers, and backtracks until he finds it, before remembering that he forgot to look for lemongrass in the produce section, and then backtracks to find _that_. Hadn’t Phichit always insisted on using bamboo shoots, too? It came in a can sometimes, didn’t it?

More backtracking.

He spends nearly half an hour in the grocery, but when he comes out again, he’s sure he has enough supplies for several meals, and he’s looking forward to cooking them. Any exhaustion he might have had earlier has long since gone.

Pavel folds his newspaper and looks up with a smile when Yuuri climbs into the backseat, laden with four plastic bags of food. “ _Dom_?”

_Home_.

It’s not – but Yuuri can already imagine the scent of the garlic he’s just purchased frying with the onion waiting for him. The meal he makes won’t be quite the same as what his mother would do – she’d undoubtedly tsk and cluck and want to add a thousand things he has forgotten to purchase, or just couldn’t find.

But it’s going to be good. Yuuri knows Victor will smell it the moment he steps off the elevator, and he can’t wait to see Victor’s face. It won’t be as bright as when Yuuri landed his combination, but… it’ll be close.

_“Puzhulsto_ ,” says Yuuri. Pavel pulls the car away from the curb and merges into traffic.

Yuuri runs through the steps as they speed through the city. _Chop the onion, mince the garlic, dice the chicken, marinate while I cook the vegetables and start the rice – I should get a rice cooker, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before._

He’s still lost in planning as when they arrive at the apartment, unload the groceries, and wedge them into the elevator. Yuuri imagines the flavors on his tongue, his stomach rumbling with hunger.

He knows the moment he steps into the apartment. It’s empty, of course, but there’s plenty of evidence that Victor’s housekeeper, Marina, has been through.

Marina has thoughtfully left the kitchen light on, allowing for their late arrival home. There’s evidence of the breakfast dishes Yuuri remembers leaving in the sink for later. There’s track lines on the carpet from the vacuum cleaner. The mirrors sparkle and shine, the pillows appear freshly plumped, and there’s even two places set for dinner at the long table, just as there always is when Yuuri arrives home alone.

Yuuri’s come to expect this reset every evening. Tonight, though…

He’d forgotten what Marina also leaves behind. Not every night, but enough that he should have remembered it was a possibility. It’s the scent of something warm and welcoming. Sweet and spicy and comforting, the sort of scent that should have made Yuuri’s mouth water and his stomach rumble with anticipation.

Chicken and potatoes and carrots, with onion and garlic to round it out.

_Marina made us dinner with the chicken in the fridge_ , realizes Yuuri with a stomach full of lead. _It smells really good, too._

Any other day, it’d be a relief to come home and know that dinner was waiting for him. That all Yuuri had to do was put on the soft slippers that Marina had purchased, dump his sweaty clothes in the hamper for Marina to wash, take a shower in the stall that Marina cleaned, and eat the food that Marina had prepared, before falling asleep in the bed that Marina had made.

Today, though – with half of what should have been a meal in bags at Yuuri’s feet – it’s almost a punch in the gut.

Makkachin comes barreling out of the back of the apartment, ears flying as she lets out a happy bark and gives Yuuri a cheerful sniff hello. She still looks for Victor – but doesn’t seem surprised not to see him behind Yuuri.

“Hey, Makka,” says Yuuri, dropping to his knees to greet the dog. He tries to keep his breaths shallow. The apartment smells delicious, but it’s not what he wants to smell. The Japanese words in his mouth seem just as incongruous as the rest of him feels. “Guess it doesn’t matter if I put these groceries away or not, huh?”

Makkachin lets out a soft whine, shoving her nose into Yuuri’s hands. She looks hopefully at her leash hanging on the hook by the door.

“Yeah,” sighs Yuuri. He gives her topknot another ruffle and stands to reach for the leash.

Dinner can wait until Victor comes home. They’ll sit and enjoy it together, just as they would anything Yuuri would have tried to make.

_It’ll probably taste better, too_ , thinks Yuuri. _There’s always next week. I’ll get a chance to use those ingredients he bought for me._

_One of these days._

“Okay, Makka,” says Yuuri, clipping the leash to the dancing dog. “Let’s go for a walk.”

*

For the first time in months, the way Victor’s heart is pounding has nothing to do with Yuuri.

The air in the rink is chilly, but Victor only feels the pulsing warmth of anticipation under his skin. A week of evening practices, of pushing his body and his imagination and his creativity to the very limit. Of clawing out a four-minute program, centimeter by centimeter, until it felt less cobbled together and more like an actual program.

_It’s good. It’s not great – but it can be_ , he tells himself, watching as Yakov fiddles with the sound system. The rink is empty except for the two of them; Victor’s long since finished the various drills and exercises that Yakov insists on to keep him limber. It’s much, much later in the day than he’d normally try to skate a full program for anyone, especially on top of a full day of training… but this is the only guaranteed time he has to run it without additional eyes watching.

And he really, really doesn’t want anyone watching his free skate program. Not yet.

_It’s not quite right yet. It’ll be fine in time for Europeans, though. And it’s ready for Yakov to see it. I need Yakov to see it so that I know where to go next._

Standing on center ice in an empty rink, with only Yakov on the side to watch his barely formed free skate, is a heady, giddy feeling. It reminds Victor of the days when he was younger, when defending his newly-won golds on the Senior circuit was still a tenuous and not guaranteed proposition.

When Russia was ready to support him in his quest to remain on top, instead of challenging him to show that he deserved to stay there.

_I shouldn’t blame them for wanting to see me skate before sending me anywhere_ , Victor chides himself. _I haven’t skated competitively for a year, and if I hadn’t left, they’d have seen me skate four times by now. They’re willing to send me to Europeans and Worlds without having attended Nationals first. They’ve let Yuuri come to train here with me, when they could have refused him entry. The FFKKR has been very accommodating. I should be grateful._

“Vitya!” shouts Yakov from the side. He sounds irritable whether he speaks in Russian or English, but it’s only in Russian that he also sounds as fond as he does now. “Are you here to skate, or to count the hair on the back of your hand?”

“I’m ready,” Victor replies.

_Count to three… raz, dva, tri…_

The music begins. Victor jumps into his still shaky choreography and lets the cheerful tones sink into his skin. The song isn’t _quite_ right – it’s one he’s had in the back of his mind for years now, and never had the right occasion to use. It’ll do. It’s bouncy and peppy, cheerful and joyous in a way that reminds him of his early days skating, back when landing triples and quads was new and exciting.

_It’s still exciting_ , Victor tells himself as he lands his triple axel. Wobbly, but still landed. _Even if it’s more relief than elation._

The skate isn’t perfect; he’s choreographed jumps that he still can’t land perfectly, but which he and Sasha both agree are well within reach in the next few weeks. For now, Yakov has the basics written on the paper in his hands if he wants to double check what Victor plans to do for competition. Victor marks or downgrades most of the more difficult jumps – better not to injure himself now, since this is just to show Yakov what he has in mind.

It’s a good program, light-hearted and fun. Victor thinks it captures perfectly his renewed enthusiasm for the ice, the way skating with Yuuri makes him forget everything: the jarring in his knees when he lands a jump, the way his muscles ache at the end of the day, or the way his feet hurt before he’s even stepped out of bed in the morning. Victor imagines skating it with his hair long, like he’d worn it years ago – but that’s probably too much.

And he’s not returning to his youth, anyway. He’s forging ahead, marking new territory. It’s yet another chapter in his long and storied career.

_This is renewal_ , thinks Victor. _Not repetition._ _My career renewed, just like I’ve renewed Yuuri’s._

Victor lands his combination – a somewhat stumbling triple toe, followed by a triple loop. It’s not his favorite combination, but it works.

_Yuuri landed his ‘Tano combination today while I was practicing this combination_ , remembers Victor. There’s a giddy sort of thrill that comes with the memory – as well as the sharp pang of guilt.

_He’s already giving me a challenge on the ice. It’s exactly what I wanted when I went to Japan._

_And… I nearly missed seeing him land it, too_.

He’d been working on his triple-triple combo – focused on the jump for the first time in… Victor couldn’t remember how long. It’d been pure chance that he’d looked over at just the moment when Yuuri had taken off. When Yuuri had landed the second jump, Victor had let out a shout of triumph and gone sprinting across the ice.

_If it wasn’t for sheer luck, I would have missed it entirely._

“Vitya!” shouts Yakov as Victor over-rotates his jump. “Pay attention!”

_Ah, I was supposed to make that a triple Lutz, not a double. I need to concentrate on my own program and not worry about Yuuri’s. It’s a lot harder to do that than I thought._

He ends the program with a triple axel, a Bielman spin, a short but complicated step sequence, and a final flourish that mimics Yuuri’s final free skate pose. In Victor’s mind, he’ll be facing Yuuri when he does it for real. It’s easy to imagine the delight he’ll see on Yuuri’s face when he finishes his performance in competition, backed by the enthusiastic applause from the audience, the impressed and admiring grimaces from the rest of the competition.

It’s a little less heartening to see the reality in the practice rink at Yubileynyy: Yakov, arms crossed, a frown on his perpetually disgruntled face.

Well. It’s not like Victor’s ever expected to impress Yakov in recent years. Even the last few gold-medal skates only ever got the half smile of a begrudging approval, despite the enthusiastic scores from the judges.

The music fades away, leaving the rink silent except for the faint drone of the mechanism that keeps the rink frozen and the fans on the far side that keep the air at a reasonably unfrozen temperature.

Victor’s mouth is dry. Suddenly, his visions of applause and acclaim, the bright approval on Yuuri’s face and the giddy grin he’d give to reporters afterwards start to tarnish in the quiet aftermath of having actually performed. The jumps don’t feel as high or as tight; the spins are slower than they ought to have been. Even the choreography feels like it’s less inspired than Victor originally thought.

His skates scratch along the ice as he glides back to Yakov to receive the verdict. Yakov stares at him, unblinking, unmoving, waiting to speak until Victor’s within arm’s length.

“Why are you coming back to skating, Vitya?”

It’s not the reaction Victor expected; the question itself is such a non-sequitur that Victor isn’t even sure how to answer it.

“I…”

Yakov sighs and rubs his face. “Renewal, that’s your theme?”

“That’s the idea. Renewed love of the ice, renewed love of the sport.”

“I don’t see it,” says Yakov crossly. “What I saw reminds me of what you skated ten years ago.” The way he says it doesn’t sound like a good thing. “It’s a fine program, Vitya. Some might even say it’s entertaining. But I question whether or not it would even make a good exhibition piece for you.”

“I have an exhibition piece,” says Victor shortly. “Yuuri and I are doing a pair skate to _Stammi_.”

“At least that program has weight. This? This is frivolous. Juvenile. You look like an old man trying to reclaim his youth. It’d be fine for someone else, one of the juniors or a first-year senior who is still finding their footing and gaining experience with no anticipation of reaching the podium. But you? Not you.”

Victor bristles. “I’ll have the quads and triples back by the end of the month. Sasha and I agreed it’d be unwise to push now just for the sake of demonstration.”

“It’s not about the jumps, Vitya,” snaps Yakov. “It’s about the bar you’ve set for yourself. Do you really think this program is worthy of a five-time world champion? Do you really think this program can _win_?”

Victor lifts his chin. “I’ll increase the technical score. I can change the elements to make it a better presentation. Once I have the quad flip and Lutz—”

“Stop. If you thought it was worth a gold medal, you’d have said so.”

Victor closes his eyes, lets his head fall back, and sighs.

_I know._

The program’s not good enough. It’s not the type of thing people expect to see from him – it’s a surprise, yes, but not the kind that will win him accolades or medals.

“Vitya,” says Yakov, his voice surprisingly gentle in the massive space around them, “I know you have been bored the last few years with competition.”

Victor tries to swallow; it’s difficult. “I thought I did a better job of hiding that.”

“Was it really necessary to go all the way to Japan and put your career in jeopardy, just to find a rival worthy of you, Vitya? You know Yura would have been all the competition you needed for the gold.”

Victor shakes his head. “It wasn’t only about finding a rival, Yakov.”

“What am I supposed to think, Vitya? All I know is you were working on your programs for this year – and then without so much as an explanation, you fly off to Japan to coach a skater you never _once_ took note of in any competition before! And the _moment_ he breaks your world record – you tell me you’re returning to the ice. Why _else_ would you be on the ice, if not to challenge him?”

“Isn’t that reason enough?”

“Not with _this_ program. _This_ is the program of a love-sick fool who only wants to keep Katsuki company. Not to challenge him for the records which are rightfully yours.”

“By whose tally?” Victor challenges him. “Yuuri earned his world record fair and square. So did Yura. I’m not going to begrudge them for it.”

“Then why bother coming back, if you don’t intend to offer them a challenge?” retorted Yakov. “If you think you’re no longer the best in the world – why bother?”

For a moment, Victor’s pride flares. “I _am_ the best.”

“Then prove it,” challenges Yakov. “You cannot compete halfway, Vitya. Not if you expect the FFKKR to support you. You must be all in. Your programs must be stronger than ever. _You_ must be stronger than ever. You need to want the gold, and want it badly, or…”

Victor looks away – it’s almost automatic the way his eyes immediately go to the crisscross of the steel rafters holding up the roof. It’s a familiar sight, from years of having landing flat on his ass while skating programs that were stronger than before, from wanting the gold so badly that he could taste it on his tongue and in between his teeth.

He remembers that want. He’s not sure he still feels it anymore.

“Or what?” says Victor. It echoes a little bit.

Yakov doesn’t answer; he sighs. The sigh echoes with Victor’s words.

“Tell me,” says Yakov. “If Katsuki hadn’t won silver in Barcelona. If he’d won gold, or not placed at all. If he’d never even made it to the Final… would you be here now? Does every ending to your little love story conclude with the two of you competing against each other on the ice?”

“Yes,” says Victor without even thinking. “If this is where Yuuri wants me to be.”

“ _Yuuri_?” Yakov’s mouth drops open. “You’re here because _Yuuri_ wants you here? What about you? _You_ need to want you here, Vitya, or there’s no point to being here at all.”

“Of course I want to be here!” Victor snaps. “Fine, maybe I would have been all right with never returning – maybe the reason I’m standing here now is because Yuuri asked. But I wouldn’t have agreed to return if the idea of competing against Yuuri didn’t appeal.”

Yakov grunts, clearly disbelieving. Victor reaches out and grabs his shoulder. “I’m here because _I_ want to be here, Yakov. Yuuri’s request was only the catalyst.”

“And what about your little challenge? That you’ll only marry him when he wins gold? Don’t you want him to win?”

“He _has_ gold – and I’d marry him with or without it. He knows that.”

“That’s not what I mean. You’re his fiancé. You should _want_ him to win, Vitya.”

“I do.”

“You need to want to win, too. Maybe more than he does, since you have further to go.”

“ _Me_?”

“Katsuki’s not the one who took a year off when he should have been training. Winning should be _everything_ , the _only_ reason to return. Do you understand what people have done to give you this opportunity? Or are you so willing to have your entire legacy rewritten by children?”

“Yuuri’s not a child,” snaps Victor. “And my records were always going to be rewritten someday.”

“ _Someday_ , yes. Within a year of your retirement? You can’t tell me you wanted that. And what happens, when every one of your records is wiped clean, and your name no longer appears in the annals of figure skating? When no one remembers the name of Victor Nikiforov?”

It sounds so ridiculous. “My entire—”

“Your world record for short and free are gone, Vitya. Your Grand Prix streak has ended. Europeans and Worlds are next. And you skate to a teenager’s beat as if it doesn’t matter. What has love _done_ to you, to make you so complacent about everything you’ve worked to achieve over the last twenty years?”

Victor’s eyes flash. “And where is Yuuri in all this? What happens to _him_ if I want it more? Where does that leave _us_ , if I beat him?”

He doesn’t expect an answer. After all – Yakov is the man whose wife left him because what he wanted wasn’t enough for the two of them.

Yakov stares at him incredulously. “You think it would leave you anywhere other than where you are now? Who do you think your Katsuki loves, anyway? You, or the Victor Nikiforov in the magazines and posters he could buy on the street?”

Victor sucks in a breath.

_That’s not… Yuuri loves me, not my wins or my posters or my records. Yakov is just trying to get into my head, put me back in the mindset I used to have when my only goal was winning._

He glances back up at the rafters, and remembers the feeling of _wanting_ the win… of wanting to _keep_ the win his…

_I… haven’t really wanted it at all in so long… not really._

“Vitya, this could be the last free skate of your career. Is this how you want to leave them? When you look back on your career, is this the comeback that will make you truly proud?”

“No.”

Victor’s barely conscious of having said it – but as soon as he hears the question and hears himself respond, he knows it’s true.

The skate is fun, frivolous… but it’s not how he wants to be remembered, bouncing around the ice like a teenager.

_I want to be remembered for something more…._

“What is it you want to them to say when you’re done, Vitya?”

_I don’t know. I don’t even know what I want to say – only that when I’m on the ice, I can feel it bubbling under my skin. When I’m with Yuuri, I’m bursting with it._

_But when it comes to express it – even in Russian, nothing comes out._

Yakov sighs.

“Keep skating,” he says. “We’ll work on the elements until you figure it out. You’re running out of time, Vitya, and I can’t keep your safety net from collapsing for much longer.”

_…Safety net_?

Victor’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

But Yakov acts as if Victor’s said nothing. “Keep skating,” he repeats. “Just keep skating, until you know what story it is you want to tell.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Kharasho (Russian) – Okay  
> Blyad (Russian) – Shit  
> Izvenitza (Russian) - Excuse me  
> Magazin (Russian) – Store


	15. Christmas Morning, Russian-Style

Victor’s cell phone starts ringing the moment he and Makkachin come home from Christmas morning walkies. The only reason Victor doesn’t lunge for it is because he can already hear Yuuri singing off-key in the en suite, safe in the theory that no one’s around to hear him.

 _Damn_ , thinks Victor ruefully, digging the phone out of his pocket. _I was going to kiss Yuuri awake_.

The idea of ignoring his phone and surprising Yuuri instead is tempting – until Makkachin lets out a single bark. The singing stops abruptly while Yuuri no doubt tries to recover from the subsequent heart attack. Victor would go to help, but it’s a struggle to hold Makkachin back from racing through the apartment to join Yuuri in the shower, leaving a trail of muddy pawprints in his wake.

The phone rings again.

“No, Makka,” Victor chides as he pulls the phone from his pocket.

_7:45am_

_Incoming Call from Zhenya_

Victor snorts, because of _course_ Zhenya would call so early. He has no doubt she’s been awake for two hours and has already cooked half the food she plans to serve.

He _could_ not answer the phone. He could also give Yura a pair of shoes with actual knives attached to the bottom and then invite the kid to walk over his back repeatedly. He’s not sure which would be more painful in the long run.

He grabs the phone just before it switches to voicemail, settles it between his ear and his shoulder, and stretches for the cloth to wipe Makkachin’s paws. “What a very good thing I never sleep in,” he says in Russian without preamble.

“Isn’t it?” replies his sister, not one bit fazed at the abrupt entry into conversation. “I’m just asking because I talked to Seryozha—”

“Was that before or after he finished the vodka?” asks Victor.

“Oh, good, you remember you have a brother,” says Zhenya.

Victor stifles the sigh and concentrates on the mud between Makkachin’s toes. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out what Sergei would have told Zhenya. Despite the brief flurry of text messages informing him about his required presence at Christmas dinner, he hasn’t actually _spoken_ to his sister since… September? October? He must have called her to let her know the boxes she’d sent with his costumes arrived safely.

He’s sure he did.

He must have done.

He thinks.

Maybe.

Every conversation with Zhenya picks up where the last conversation left off, and since she’s not asking about the costumes, she clearly knows they arrived. Hopefully because he told her, and not because she’s seen Yuuri and Yuri wearing two of them.

Zhenya is still going strong. “And here I was thinking you had forgotten entirely about the existence of your older siblings. Who love you and wish you only the best happiness and are ever so grateful for the tiniest word telling us you’re alive, and maybe living again in Saint Petersburg.”

The water in the shower shuts off with a whine in the pipes.

 _So much for surprising him in the shower_ , thinks Victor. “Hi, Zhenya. Yuuri and I moved back to Saint Petersburg last week.”

“That’s wonderful. Now tell me you’re coming today, Vitya.”

“I’m coming, I promise.”

“And you’re bringing Makkachin.”

Makkachin lets out a low _woof_ as Victor finishes with her feet. She springs away from him, straight into the back of the apartment, where Yuuri greets her with a flurry of Japanese. “Yes, of course.”

“And Yuuri’s coming, too.”

Victor groans as he stands up to shed his coat; easier to pretend it’s because of Zhenya and not because his joints and muscles ache. “No, I brought Yuuri all the way from Japan to Saint Petersburg with the sole intention of keeping him locked in my apartment and never letting him out except for occasional airings on the balcony.”

“Good,” says Zhenya, as if Victor hasn’t been sassing her. “We’re eating at three, but if you aren’t here by eleven I’m going to send Vasily after you.”

Victor reaches the bedroom just as Yuuri steps out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and shivering. Victor leans against the doorframe and watches with admiration as water drips down Yuuri’s shoulders and back.

Yuuri, on the other hand, doesn’t even stop to look at Victor. Instead, he runs straight into the closet, no doubt with the horrible and disappointing intention of putting on clothes.

 “I _am_ twenty-eight years old, I don’t need your husband to mind me,” says Victor, scowling at the closet door.

“Oh, is that how old you are now? I certainly wouldn't know. The last time I was able to spend your birthday with you, your voice hadn’t cracked yet,” counters Zhenya. “ _Eleven_ , Vitya.”

“Fine, fine.” Victor wonders if he can extricate himself from the call before Yuuri puts on too many clothes. “We’ll be there. Did the box with my presents show up?”

“ _Victor Andreyevich Nikiforov, if you’re asking me to confirm the arrival of your box when the only way I know your costumes arrived in Japan is because I saw them on international television—!_ ”

Victor winces and holds the phone away from his ear as Zhenya shouts down the line.

There’s movement from the closet as Yuuri sticks his head out of the door, eyes wide. He’s already wearing one of his deep blue v-neck sweaters, though it’s slightly damp around the collar from his hair. There’s no way he can understand the Russian coming out of the telephone, but the sound of being scolded by an older sister transcends language.

Apart from the sweater, all Yuuri wears is a pair of boxer briefs and socks.

Victor can work with that.

“See you soon, Zhenya, goodbye!” says Victor brightly, ends the call, and drops the phone with a _clunk_ on his dresser. He turns to Yuuri and switches to English. “You’re dressed!”

“Who was that?” asks Yuuri curiously.

Victor steps forward and wraps his arms around Yuuri, who automatically wraps his own around Victor. “My sister. Why are you dressed?”

“Because it’s _cold_ outside. Why was your sister shouting at you?”

Victor nuzzles at Yuuri’s damp hair. “She does that. I was hoping you’d keep the bed warm for me. Is it still warm? Let’s find out.”

“Vitya!” protests Yuuri – but the protests stop when Victor manages to trip them both onto the bed. Much to Victor’s delight, Yuuri even straddles him while Victor rests his hands on Yuuri’s thighs. Yuuri’s skin is still warm to the touch from the shower. Victor smiles up at him hopefully.

“She sounded mad,” says Yuuri, worried. “She’s not… um… angry about me, is she?”

“Why would she be angry about you, _solnyshko_?”

“Well… your brother didn’t seem exactly pleased to see me.”

Victor frowns. “What makes you say that?”

Yuuri isn’t meeting Victor’s eyes. His hands rest on Victor’s waist, and he’s not pulling away, but… Yuuri leans forward a little, as if looking for comfort. “Well… he was kinda homophobic, honestly.”

 _Oh_.

“He’s not,” said Victor reassuringly. “He’s just annoyed because if he wants to ensure a next generation of Nikiforovs, he’s going to have to provide them himself. Marriage and children isn’t something that Sergei has ever put much time into pursuing. The only reason he wants me to marry a girl is so that he won’t have to marry at all.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri after a moment. “If you’re sure.”

“Mmm, very sure,” agrees Victor, nuzzling Yuuri’s neck. Yuuri pulls up, dragging his freshly-shaved cheek against Victor’s stubble. It sends small, electric thrills through Victor’s chest. He could nuzzle Yuuri all morning, but instead, he lightly kisses Yuuri’s now-accessible lips instead. “We had Christmas your way in Japan. I think we should have Christmas my way today.”

“Oh?” Yuuri’s voice is breathy. The vibrations of his words tickle Victor’s lips as he kisses down Yuuri’s throat. “How do you celebrate Christmas in Russia?”

“Well,” says Victor. “It’s very traditional to seduce your favorite Japanese skater first thing in the morning.”

Yuuri laughs a little. His fingers slide down Victor’s shirt and slip under to touch his skin. They’re still warm from the shower, and Victor sucks in a breath as he leans closer to Yuuri. “Really?”

“Oh, yes,” breathes Victor as he returns to Yuuri’s mouth. He tastes like tea and mint; any noise Victor makes is entirely involuntary, just like the way his fingers go still on Yuuri’s thighs, tips just under the hem of his underwear.

It’s good, just like this – kissing, without any rush or hurry. There’s nowhere they need to be for hours, nothing they need to do except be with each other.

Victor can’t remember the last time it was like this: a soft, lazy morning they can spend together.

Now, though…

They share open-mouth kisses, their breaths easy and even as they smile back and forth to each other. Yuuri’s eyes open and close, but Victor doesn’t want to close his eyes for a moment – he doesn’t want to miss a moment of Yuuri in his bed, in his home.

Having Yuuri in Saint Petersburg – let alone his _bed_ – is the best Christmas present he’s ever had. Victor has every intention of savoring every second of it.

Yuuri’s hands push Victor’s shirt halfway up his chest. Victor’s only dimly aware of the way his hands slide further under Yuuri’s underwear, the smooth skin already pimpling with goosebumps.

“Take it off, _solnyshko_ ,” whispers Victor. “Under the covers, with me.”

Yuuri sits up and grabs the sweater from back of the neck, pulling it off in one smooth motion. Victor’s hands are on his stomach the moment it appears as he leans forward to kiss the small indention at the base of his sternum. The hair on Yuuri’s chest is sparse, thicker around his nipples, which are still stiff from the shower.

Victor keeps kissing Yuuri’s chest, working his hands down under the waistband of his underwear, while Yuuri laughs.

“You have to let me up, if you want me to take those off,” he says.

“I don’t know why you put them on in the first place.”

“I didn’t know seducing me was part of Christmas tradition!”

Victor growls and flips Yuuri over onto his back so he can yank at the underwear. He throws it across the room, where it lands in the doorway leading to the hall.

“I think there’s a flaw in your plan,” says Yuuri, amused. Somehow he manages to unbutton Victor’s pants without looking; Yuuri’s fingers on Victor’s stomach are warm and wicked, and Victor adores them.

“Yuuri,” says Victor, delighted. “Are you asking if you can unwrap your Christmas presents?”

“Maybe just _part_ of you,” says Yuuri. There’s a secret, playful grin on his face that Victor adores. He falls forward to hover over Yuuri and leans down to kiss him.

Yuuri’s hands stay on his waist – not moving, not working his pants off. Just enjoying the kiss as much as Victor does. Victor shouldn’t mind.

_Except there’s so much else we could be enjoying right now…_

Kissing Yuuri is every cliché Victor’s ever heard. Drinking cold water on a hot day. The rush of adrenaline when he lands the perfect quad. Slipping into his own bed after days of hotels, knowing he can fall asleep in comfort.

Victor lowers himself down, his weight still on his elbows. They shift against each other, sliding easily into a familiar position – Victor’s arms under Yuuri’s shoulders, his fingers softly carding through Yuuri’s hair. Their legs are a tangle together, their hips not quite aligned. One of Yuuri’s knees is a bit higher than the other; it gives Victor a sort of valley where he can rest without having to worry about his balance.

Yuuri’s hands are still on Victor’s waist, still toying with his jeans. Fingers slipping under the waistband, grazing the top of his ass, lazy and undemanding.

It’s nice. It’s not enough. Victor drops his kisses lower, to the soft skin under Yuuri’s ears.

“Take them off,” he whispers, speaking in Russian without even thinking about how there’s no hope Yuuri understands what he says.

There’s a soft groan in Yuuri’s throat – and then Yuuri says something in Japanese. The sounds are soft and guttural and go straight to Victor’s cock; the only word he recognizes is _Roshiago_ – Russian. Victor’s laugh is low.

_Okay then. We can play it that way._

It’s nothing truly important, what he says in Yuuri’s ears. They’re things Yuuri should know by heart anyway. _I know what you’re saying,_ he says in Russian, _even if I can’t understand it. I love the way the words fall from your lips. I love the way the words sound in your mouth, even if it’s not my name you’re saying. I love the way you peel every layer I use to hide myself, until all that left is me, just me._

Yuuri answers him, the soft Japanese wrapping around Victor like a blanket, warming him from within. Maybe Yuuri does know more Russian than he lets on, because he slowly pulls Victor’s clothes away, exposing his skin to the cool air of the bedroom.

Victor’s words change as the clothes fall away, from the unimportant to the unspoken. _You’re beautiful_. _You’re mine. I’m so glad you’re here. I wish you would never leave._

They shift again, fingers touching and moving. The words become more broken, with longer pauses as they catch their breaths only to lose them again. Victor doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to pull away from Yuuri for a single moment, not even long enough to find the lube and the condoms inside the bedstand drawer.

Given the way that Yuuri clings to him, he’s sure Yuuri feels the same. It’s all right. There’s other ways to be close, even if it’s not quite what Victor wants in the moment.

When Yuuri pushes against his chest, falling to his side and curves his hand around both their cocks together – Victor changes his mind.

The words change too, as Yuuri begins to stroke. The only noise Yuuri makes now is the soft gasp and grunt in the back of his throat. If there’s any words leaving his lips, it’s only the first syllable of Victor’s name: _Vih, Vih, Vih_.

Victor’s naked now, entirely and completely, literally and figuratively, every hope and dream and fear and longing spilling out of his mouth, Russian words that he’s almost positive Yuuri won’t understand – which might be exactly why he’s not afraid to say them in the dim darkness of his room.

He comes with a gasp; Yuuri cries out almost immediately after, his come just a little hotter than Victor’s. Victor doesn’t think to catch Yuuri’s mouth with a kiss until he’s already coming down from the high. Yuuri’s eyes are closed, as if in sleep. Victor wouldn’t be surprised if he _was_ asleep, but Yuuri opens his mouth when Victor kisses him softly, deepens the kiss as they press together even more tightly than before.

Victor’s still breathless. Given the way Yuuri’s chest rises and falls, so is Yuuri.

The words are still floating in the back of Victor’s mind. _Stay. Don’t leave._

Yuuri breathes in his arms, a heavy weight on the mattress, tangible and present and pressed close to Victor from his head to his toes. Their come cools on their skin; Yuuri’s hand is loose around their cocks. His fingers move a little, sending small shocks of pleasure zinging through Victor’s just-shy-of-overstimulated nerves.

Victor can’t look away from Yuuri, who might be dozing on the pillow, the way his eyes are slender slits, fluttering softly as he breathes.

He’s beautiful, his damp hair disheveled, a strange mix of his usual plain style and the swept-back look of Eros. There’s a small red patch on his forehead – a pimple starting to form, maybe – and his lips are swollen and red from their extended kisses. His skin around his mouth looks a bit roughened – undoubtedly from Victor’s own unshaved face.

It seems silly, all the words that came rushing out of Victor in the moment. To think that Yuuri would go anywhere without him.

_We’ve been through the worst of it. We’ve upended our lives for each other in the last year._

_He’s happy here. He won’t regret this move. He won’t regret choosing me._

Yuuri hums as he stretches and shifts next to Victor. It’s the slow process of waking, and all it does is make Victor want to cling to him.

“No,” mumbles Victor. “It’s still dark out, we can sleep some more.”

Yuuri chuckles. “It’s always dark here, Viten’ka.”

Victor’s heart clenches, just a little. “Say it again.”

Yuuri’s eyes open slowly. It’s too dark to see them in the dim light of the bedroom, but Victor imagines them in the right color anyway. “Viten’ka? Is that all right?”

That name on Yuuri’s lips as good as a promise. It’s better than faith.

“Yes,” breathes Victor, leaning forward to kiss him again. Just a soft kiss, two lips brushing against each other. Yuuri brings his hand up to curl around Victor’s bicep.

It’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. He’ll get his quads back. He’ll dominate the field at the Europeans.

He’ll prove Yuuri’s faith isn’t misplaced.

Yuuri dozes in his arms.

 _There’s time_ , thinks Victor, and dozes, too.

*

Yuuri wakes to sunshine streaming through the window.

 _I forgot to pull the blackout curtains_ , he thinks hazily, before waking up the rest of the way and realizing. _Wait. Why do I even need the blackout curtains?_

Yuuri pushes himself to sitting, dislodging Victor, who grunts and rolls onto his back. The sunlight pours into the room from the window. Makkachin is on her back, belly up in a patch of sun, happily snoring away. Yuuri reaches over to his phone on the bedside table.

_10:10 a.m._

“Uh. Vitya?”

“Hmm?” Victor shifts in the bed, and then curls an arm around Yuuri’s waist. “Turn out the lights, Yuuri.”

“What time are we supposed to be at your sister’s?”

“Eleven.” Victor shifts on the bed and squints at the windows, as if the sun rose specifically to annoy him. “Oh. Well. She never expects me to be on time for anything anyway.”

Yuuri groans. “First I drag you to Japan for a year, now I’m late meeting your sister.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Victor. He sits up and draws Yuuri’s face to his, completely heedless of Yuuri’s worry. He kisses his mouth – a quick, reassuring press of the lips. “She loves me. She’ll love you.”

Yuuri can’t keep the worry bottled in. “You always _say_ that.”

“It’s always true.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I need to shower again.”

Victor doesn’t let go. “Excellent plan, Yuuri, I’ll supervise!”

Yuuri can’t help but laugh as Victor kisses him. Victor grins through the kiss, even as he moves his mouth down Yuuri’s jawline to his neck, just under his ear where even the kisses tickle.

“Vitya, _stop_ ,” giggles Yuuri.

“No. I love hearing you laugh when I kiss you.” Victor’s voice is muted against Yuuri’s skin. The joy vibrates against him, settling into his muscles and pushing him into the soft mattress below. “Your laughter is my favorite music.”

They’re lost in kisses again, Victor pressing Yuuri into the pillows. Yuuri doesn’t mind; here, at least, he’s safe and secure and it doesn’t matter that Victor’s sister is probably (definitely) going to blame Yuuri for their being late. Their hands find each other, fingers twining together on the pillow by Yuuri’s head.

When Victor breaks the kiss, he looks eminently satisfied, even if he does look vaguely chastised when he glances at the clock on his bedside table. “We should get on the road soon. Zhenya will be counting the minutes.”

Yuuri sits up as Victor hops out of the bed, wrapping his arms around his knees as Victor tries to shake out his inside-out pajama pants. _I don’t want to screw it up with Zhenya. Mom and Dad love Victor – I really want Victor’s family to approve of me._

“She won’t be angry that we’re late?”

“Not with you,” says Victor cheerfully. He falls over when he tries to put on his pants both legs at the same time.

“Fantastic,” says Yuuri. “Who showers first?”

Victor scrambles up from the floor, flinging himself on the bed. “You could shower with me.”

Yuuri leans over to kiss him. It’s strange, kissing Victor upside down. “Your shower isn’t _that_ big. I don’t think we’d both fit.”

 “Upside down kisses are not nearly as romantic as the movies make them out to be,” muses Victor, before he springs to his feet and heads to the bathroom.

Yuuri falls back on the bed. He folds his hands over his chest and stares at the ceiling. The shower starts while Victor putters in the bathroom. If Yuuri went to join him, he’d be welcomed despite the tight fit.

He stays where he is, though, and lets his mind wander.

_I wish we hadn’t slept so late – I really wanted to call Mom and Dad. They’ll be working, but it’d still be easier to talk to them in the middle of the day during the week than on Sunday afternoons when they’re busy. I don’t want to make us any later, though – I’m not sure how far away Victor’s sister lives, or if she’ll be okay with us already being a little bit late. And I definitely don’t want to be the reason we’re any later than we already are…_

The sound of the front door’s locks opening echoes in the apartment, yanking Yuuri right out of his thoughts. He scrambles to sit up. Makkachin rolls over on the bed and lets out a single bark as she looks intently toward the hall. Just as the door opens, she jumps off the bed and trots down the hall, tail wagging happily.

“ _Dobroy utra , Vitya!_” sings out a woman before launching into a stream of Russian.

_Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit! I’m still naked and someone just broke into Vitya’s apartment._

“Just a minute!” Yuuri calls back. He nearly falls out of the bed in his haste to the closet.

Another stream of Russian – this time ending in what is obviously Yuuri’s name spoken.

_And she knows me. There’s a strange woman in the apartment, I’m naked, and she knows me._

The Russian continues, filling up every crevice of every corner in Victor’s apartment. It’s cheerful and friendly and sometimes even scolding, softer and then louder as the woman walks through the public parts of the apartment.

Yuuri grabs the first two things he can find, throws them on, and races out of the room. He promptly trips on the underwear Victor had flung into the hallway earlier that morning, just as the woman peers into the hall.

“Hello, Yuuri!” she says brightly in heavily accented English. “I Marina Vasilievna!”

Yuuri’s heart slows its pounding. _Marina, Victor’s housekeeper. Of course._

“Hi,” says Yuuri weakly from the ground. He shoves himself up, trying to fix the glasses which are cockeyed on his face.

Marina wears clothes that were clearly chosen to to de-emphasize her age and somewhat heavy-set size. Her hair fans out from her head, frosted and greying at the temples. She smiles down at Yuuri in a way that could be pity, could be amusement, could really be anything.

Yuuri is acutely aware of the underwear tangled around his ankles. When he stands up, he realizes he’s also wearing Victor’s striped white-and-blue shirt and a pair of skating pants so old and weathered that he’s not entirely sure _whose_ they are.

 _Great. Just… great_.

Marina takes one look at Victor’s shirt and breaks into a bright smile. She launches into another stream of Russian, which Yuuri _thinks_ might be complimentary, given the way she takes him by the shoulders and kisses both cheeks enthusiastically. Yuuri doesn’t even try to stop her. He can only understand one word in every dozen. _Vitya. Breakfast. Butterfly._

 _Butterfly?!?!_ wonders Yuuri.

Marina propels Yuuri into the kitchen as easily as if he were made of air. There’s an extra-large gift basket sitting on the counter, topped with an oversized bow, and Yuuri’s eyes bug out when he sees it. Marina, however, marches him right past it and deposits him at the small table by the window.

She says something to him that _might_ be an order, before going to switch on the electric kettle.

“I can do that,” says Yuuri quickly, popping back up. “It’s a holiday, you’re not working today—”

But Marina puts one hand on his shoulder and _shoves_. Yuuri sits back down with a thump.

_Wow, she’s stronger than she looks._

Marina keeps talking as she moves around the kitchen – closing the windows to cracks instead of the several inches Victor prefers, unpacking the box of groceries she’s brought inside, pulling out bread for toast, rummaging in the fridge and the pantry. Yuuri can’t follow a word of it, but it’s clear she’s moving from idle chit-chat to something more akin to scolding.

She tsks when she looks in the pantry and pulls out the empty tin of black tea leaves that he’d drunk straight through before starting in on his New Year’s sencha leaves. She shakes the tin at him, almost menacingly.

“Um, yeah, I liked it,” says Yuuri, confused as why Marina would be upset. He shrinks when he’s met with another flood of Russian.

She tsks when she looks in the pantry with the laundry machine and sees the load of clothes ready to fold.

“I did laundry,” says Yuuri, and shrinks again at the annoyed Russian that spews forth.

She tsks even louder when she digs in the onion bin and comes up empty.

“If you’re looking for the onions, they’re in the fridge – it’s easier to cut them without crying that way,” says Yuuri.

Marina by now seems to be on a roll, so Yuuri’s not surprised when she lets out another flurry of exasperated Russian.

_But I can do those things! She might be Victor’s housekeeper, but she doesn’t have to baby us!_

The kettle snaps off, steaming. Yuuri jumps up to his feet. “I can pour it—”

“ _Nyet_ ,” says Marina imperiously.

“Please, let me, you’re a guest today—”

“ _Nyet!_ ” snaps Marina, along with another flurry of Russian.

“I’m not even sure why you’re _here_ today!” wails Yuuri.

Marina steps back, her eyes open wide with shock. Yuuri covers his mouth with his hands and lets out a tiny squeak of surprise.

_Oh no. I yelled at her. She’s going to quit. Victor’s going to be so angry._

The bedroom door opens. “Yuuri?”

“Vitya!” calls Marina, cautious happiness, eyes still warily on Yuuri. It’s followed by a stream of Russian. All Yuuri can pick out is his own name, and maybe something about tea.

Victor responds, still cheerful and friendly, and then the door closes again.

Marina pats Yuuri on the cheek. It’s hard enough to sting.

“You tea,” she says. It’s so clearly meant to be a concession, as if letting him make the tea is a kindness she’s willing to allow.

“Okay,” says Yuuri. He hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should pull out his own sencha leaves, or make black tea again as a concession to the current Russian majority in the apartment. In the end, he pulls down the box of tea sachets that’s beside the empty canister of loose-leaf tea, not entirely sure what Marina would make of green tea, and not particularly interested in finding out.

_The way she’s watching me – it feels an awful lot like this is a test I’m well on my way to failing._

He’s convinced of it when Marina lets out a heavy sigh, takes the box of sachets out of his hands and puts it back in the cupboard. She walks over to the large basket on the table and pulls out a canister that looks remarkably similar to the one Yuuri emptied. She opens another cabinet, removes a bright blue ceramic teapot, and begins to dump tea leaves into it.

Yuuri counts them out. It’s not a very large teapot – three or four teaspoons would be plenty.

By the time Marina’s dumped in the tenth spoonful, Yuuri’s eyebrows are under his fringe and he’s long past being grateful he didn’t use his own sencha leaves.

“Ehhhh, we’re going to die,” he whispers as Marina brings the spoonfuls up to an even dozen. At least in Japanese there’s no chance she’ll understand him.

Marina takes no notice of his premonition; she pours in the hot water from the electric kettle and covers the entire pot with a cloth. She looks Yuuri up and down, chewing her lip as if considering – but at the last moment, she changes her mind and goes to refill the electric kettle herself.

Yuuri can’t decide if he’s insulted or desperate to burst into laughter. He watches as Marina deftly moves through the kitchen, preparing a tray with sugar cubes, jam, cream, and a plate full of cookies, all of which are procured from the basket on the table. The pot of brewing tea goes in the center, and as soon as the tray looks complete, Yuuri reaches for it.

“I can carry it,” he offers. Marina gives him another careful study before allowing him to carry the tray out to the large table in the main room. Yuuri can feel her heavy, critical gaze all the way, while she carries the electric kettle, which is already boiling again.

_Yup. She doesn’t like me. This bodes well._

“Ooo, breakfast,” says Victor, coming out of the bedroom while tugging a sweater down over his stomach. Yuuri _almost_ drops the tray on the table. It’s the first time in days that Victor’s worn clothes not meant for skating, and Yuuri forgot how _good_ Victor looks. He’s wearing dark jeans that look pressed. A collared shirt peeks out from under a beautiful jade-green sweater that looks soft to the touch, thick and very, very warm. His feet are bare, and Yuuri can’t take his eyes from them.

Yuuri loves Victor from top to toes, and he doesn’t have a foot fetish. He’s familiar with Victor’s feet – the length of them, the way the bones jut out and the pinky toes tuck under the others. The blue veins that criss-cross over the arch, the dark skin that is evidence of prior scarring. They’re pale feet, clear and lovely, just like the rest of Victor.

Yuuri stares at Victor’s feet and doesn’t recognize them.

They’re covered in bandages, on his heels and on the high arch where the bones push up. The big toe, the little toe, the bits of bone that stick out on either side are all rubbed to a bright red. When Victor leans over to kiss Marina hello, his jeans ride up enough so that Yuuri can see how the skin is rubbed raw at his ankles.

_How did I miss that? How is he even still walking?!?! Vitya – why didn’t you say something?_

Yuuri wants to wince. Or make Victor sit down so that he can treat the wounds with antiseptic.

Marina isn’t just talking to Victor – she’s scolding him while she pours out the tea into the cups. She fills two of them just over halfway from the too-strong brew in the pot and then tops them off with the hot water. The third – she stops and gives Yuuri a piercing look, before filling it only a third of the way with the strong tea. The rest she fills with water. That cup, she hands to Yuuri.

Yuuri stares at the comparatively pale tea – which really isn’t all that pale at all. _I’d say that’s an insult, but I honestly think I would die if I drank it any stronger._

Marina is still talking. Yuuri can’t understand a word, but the chastising tone is familiar enough. Victor is grinning at Marina like she’s praising him instead of scolding him. He squeezes a lemon into his cup with glee, and then reaches for the sugar bowl with even more glee as he drops two cubes into his cup. He stirs with one hand while he reaches for the cookies. Marina slaps his hand lightly, and hands him an apple instead.

“Marina is so mean to me,” complains Victor. “She wants me to be _healthy_.”

“Horrible,” agrees Yuuri, and cautiously sips at his tea. It’s good, but brewing it strong and then diluting it seems a strange way to make tea. He’s not sure it tastes any different, either.

Marina says something to Victor that makes his spit out his tea, coughing, which doesn’t seem to worry her in the slightest, even as Yuuri slaps him on the back.

“What’d she say?” asked Yuuri, too curious to let it go.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” says Victor quickly. “She likes you.”

“Uh-huh.” Yuuri’s not so sure about that, but Marina is sipping her tea and looking very satisfied, so maybe it’s even true.

“You should go get ready, we’ll need to leave soon.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, with another glance at Marina. He’s not sure if it’s an insult to leave the table without finishing his tea, or if he’s allowed to take it back to the bedroom or not.

“ _Ochen’ priyatno , Marina Vasilievna-san_,” he says with a short bow.

Marina’s smile is indulgent. She stands and pats both of his cheeks, before squeezing them and shaking them a little bit, like he’s a baby that she’s coddling.

_Then again, considering how she made my tea, that’s probably how she sees me!_

She doesn’t say a word, though, and when she lets go, she sits right back down and is going off in Russian to Victor again. Yuuri makes a split-second decision, takes his cup of tea, and just about flees to the bedroom.

The tea’s gone cold by the time he’s out of the shower, but the apartment is at least five degrees warmer. It’s quiet, too. When Yuuri emerges from the bathroom, there’s only Victor, rifling through the basket in the kitchen.

“Look, Yuuri! It’s the chocolates you liked so much.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, examining the flat blue package with the picture of Red Square. A thought strikes him. “I should have given her something—”

“I took care of it,” says Victor idly, pulling out sausages and blocks of cheese. “Tickets to Russian Nationals and the Rostelecom Cup, and any other competition worth noting. I give them to her every year.”

_Oh. Wait, that means…_

Yuuri tries not to choke. “She saw me skate at Rostelecom? Wait… she saw me skate at _Sochi_?”

“Hmm?” Victor glances up. “Oh. I suppose she did.”

“Oh God,” groans Yuuri, and rests his head on the counter. “She’s seen me screw up on the ice more often than she’s seen me stick a landing.”

“Don’t be silly, you were fine.”

“Not at Sochi!”

“Yuuri! _Caviar_! She’s never given me _caviar_ before. What’s the word in English? _Afrodiziak_.”

Yuuri freezes. “Oh, God.”

“Sexual stimulant,” translates Victor, enunciating so well that there’s no way Yuuri can claim he can’t understand the words.

_If she saw me skate at Rostelecom this year… that means…_

“Victor,” says Yuuri, staring in horror at his fiancé. “I seduced your housekeeper.”

Victor stares at Yuuri for a long moment, before he breaks into a grin.

“Oh. You mean with Eros.”

Yuuri lets his head drop back down to the island. “I’m going to crawl under a rock and _die_.”

“Okay,” says Victor. “After we try the caviar, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marina, incidentally, was telling Yuuri that Victor is a flittering butterfly. She also told Victor to drink his tea because he needs to put hair on his chest (and that she would know, she does his laundry). 
> 
> Translations:  
> Dobroy utra (Russian) - Good morning  
> Ochen’ priyatno (Russian) – Nice to meet you  
> Afrodiziak (Russian) – aphrodisiac


	16. Party Like a Nikiforov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the chapter title is a reference to [this song](https://youtu.be/MdYGQ7B0Vew). Which is both a terrible and awesome song, depending on who you ask.
> 
> Just as a quick warning: this isn’t an RPF by any stretch, but I will from time to time mention real-life people by first names only. If you know skating, you’ll be able to figure out who I’m talking about. If not – pretend they’re off-screen characters who won’t ever impact the story overmuch and therefore you shouldn’t worry about them.

Victor’s announcement that they will drive to Zhenya’s house – and not be driven – isn’t as much of a surprise for Yuuri as Victor anticipates.

“I do know you can drive,” says Yuuri as the elevator doors close on them. It’s a tight squeeze, between the two of them, Makkachin, and the boxes they’re carrying. Makkachin is practically dancing her on leash in her excitement.

“I was hoping for a bigger reaction than just _okay_ ,” Victor grumbles.

“You drove in Hasetsu,” Yuuri points out. “And you did those commercials for Maserati. Unless you’re telling me that was a body double.”

Victor gasp of shock is answer enough. “ _Yuuri_.”

Yuuri tries not to laugh at him. “You’re not expecting me to drive whatever enormously large and expensive vehicle you have parked in the garage, are you?”

“Don’t tell me you can’t drive after five years in the States,” says Victor, shifting the box in his arms.

“On the wrong side of the road, sure,” counters Yuuri. “And then you showed up and you were so pleased to be driving Dad’s van that I figured I’d just let you get on with it.”

Victor has a pleased expression as he loses himself in memory. “I liked that van.”

“I think the traffic cops like you not driving it a lot more.”

“Yuuuuri!” complains Victor as the doors open. “I’m a very good driver. I always pay attention to the traffic lights. How else am I going to know how much time I have to speed through before they change?”

“That’s my _point_ …”

The garage is cold in the way of concrete underground garages. Their footsteps echo as they wind their way through the tight corners, past oversized SUVs and flashily wide sports cars. Yuuri gazes at the cars, all bearing the name and insignias of expensive and slightly less expensive makes and models. Any of them would fit his expectation for what Victor is likely to drive.

Victor stops at none of them.

Instead, he leads the way to the two-door blue Cooper in the far corner. It’s a pretty little car with custom paint in a shade that Yuuri’s sure was picked to match Victor’s eyes. It’s shiny and clean, though there’s a few scratches and dents that speak of years of driving, and when Victor pops the hatchback trunk, there’s the familiar debris of a car that’s been well-loved for years.

It’s small and not the least bit flashy. There’s no retractable roof, there’s no vanity plates, there’s no indication that the driver is an Olympic athlete. It smells faintly musty inside, a bit like dog and dust and pine-scented fresheners. The seats aren’t even leather – and there’s wear on them, too, though it’s clear that the interior of the car has been taken care of just as lovingly as the exterior.

Yuuri’s no expert when it comes to cars – but this tiny car is far from what he’d anticipated Victor driving. Plus, even he can tell that it’s ten years old if it’s a day.

“ _This_ is your car?” asks Yuuri, staring.

“Now the surprise,” Victor says to Makkachin.

“It’s so _little_.”

“It’s a very good car.”

“I thought Olympic champions got a Mercedes?”

“What would I do with a Mercedes?” scoffs Victor as he takes the box from Yuuri and tosses it in the car. “I hardly ever drive, traffic is terrible, and I can walk to the shops when the weather’s fine. And there’s Pavel for particularly icy mornings.”

“Okay, but…” Yuuri gives the car another look. It’s not a terrible looking car by any stretch – but it’s far from what Yuuri had imagined Victor driving. Yuuri peers into the interior – it doesn’t even look like there’s a CD player with the radio. Even penny-pinching Toshiya would have wanted to upgrade the features a _little._

“I bought this when I moved out of the dorms,” explained Victor. “I was feeling particularly independent at the time, and I didn’t want to depend on the drivers or Sergei to get me back and forth. I had a few bad experiences on the Metro, so that was out. I was saving money for an apartment, and at the time, even this much car was… what’s the word? Spending more money than you really should on something?”

“Splurging?” Yuuri suggests, a soft smile at the thought of Victor being economical.

“Yes, splurging. I know I could have something larger or more luxurious, but I don’t use it very often. Larger would be difficult to park, more luxurious would be more expensive to repair, not to mention attracting the wrong sort of attention. And…” Victor looks a bit sheepish. “I like it.”

Yuuri’s heart melts.

“It’s a good car, Vitya. I just thought you’d drive something… I don’t know….”

“Flashier?” suggests Victor.

“Well… yeah!”

“I save the flashy for holidays,” says Victor, patting the car as if to reassure it. “Maybe after Boston, we can fly to California. Johnny told me about a very nice highway that runs along the coast, we can rent a convertible and drive it, what do you think?”

It sounds idyllic, straight out of one of Phichit’s sappy rom-coms, which is perhaps why Yuuri speaks without thinking. “A _pink_ convertible.”

Victor laughs. “If you like.”

It’s a snug fit inside the car; there’s no backseat to speak of, and with the trunk loaded with boxes, the only place for Makkachin to sit is at Yuuri’s feet. In a way, it’s a blessing; the heater on Victor’s car works only partially well, and Makkachin snuggles close to Yuuri, resting her chin on his knee with a sigh as she cuddles for warmth.

Victor settles into his seat with a nearly manic grin. Yuuri tugs on his seatbelt for insurance and tries to calm his beating heart.

“Just remember to drive on the wrong side of the road,” he cautions Victor, who giggles and pulls out of the parking spot fast enough that the tires squeal.

Victor mutters crossly to himself as they head out of the city, battling traffic and a plethora of insistently red lights. Once they’re on the highway, his shoulders relax and he settles back into his seat with a contented sigh.

Yuuri lets out a relieved breath. The highway is clear of traffic, and despite the light snow falling, the Cooper hugs the road and feels perfectly safe and comfortable.

“So,” says Yuuri. “Russian Christmas. What should I expect?”

Victor shrugs. “It’s not so much about Christmas as it is just about seeing each other. Russian Nationals are always over my birthday, so we haven’t celebrated on the day since I turned fifteen. New Year’s is a much bigger holiday, but I’ve always had to film something for the telecast. Spending the evening with Zhenya wasn’t possible. No one demanded anything of me on Christmas, though, so that’s the day we usually celebrated together.”

“Oh.” Yuuri glances at the boxes in the back. “Wait – are we exchanging things? Should I have brought something?”

“You’re fine,” Victor assures him. “I purchased everything in Hasetsu and mailed it to Zhenya before Barcelona. These are just fanmail and a few other things that went to the rink while I was in Hasetsu. Zhenya keeps all of that for me.”

“You still haven’t told me about her,” says Yuuri. “I’m not even sure what to call her. Or Sergei. Is there a Russian form of address for siblings?”

“Not like in Japanese,” says Victor. “Her proper name is Evgenia Andreyevna Alexeeva, but everyone calls her Zhenya. She’s twelve years older than me, but she was never a second mother like you’d think with that large an age gap. She’s the reason I started skating. I’d follow her to class when I was three and four.”

This much, Yuuri knows from countless hours memorizing Victor’s Wikipedia page. “Nationally-ranked, but never competed internationally.”

Victor grins. “Not _never_ , just not often. She attended the European Championship once, when I was five or so. She finished in the top twenty, I think? The women’s program wasn’t as strong then. But she was always on the podium for Nationals.”

“I followed Mari to ballet,” says Yuuri. “She never liked it, so she started skipping the class. I’d tell Minako she was sick and that I was there to take her place, and I’d tell Mom and Dad that Mari was in class but wanted me to watch.”

Victor laughs. “Yuuri, so conniving! What did Mari do while you were taking her place?”

“No idea, but I got a piece of candy for every class I covered her for. And Minako always let me stay.”

“How long before Hiroko and Toshiya figured it out?”

“Probably ten minutes. But they let us play the game for about a year.”

Victor chuckles. “At least Zhenya and I didn’t have to be sneaky about it. I was always so bored, sitting on the side and watching her, so one day I borrowed a pair of skates that someone wasn’t using and tried to join her.”

Yuuri laughed. “What happened?”

“Oh, about what you’d expect from a four-year-old wearing skates that came up to his knees. I’ve never seen anyone laugh so hard in my life as she and her classmates did when I got onto the ice.” Victor smiles at the memory. “I was so angry because they laughed at me. I said to myself, they wouldn’t be laughing when I was better than they were.”

Yuuri smiles. “I’m sure they weren’t.”

“Looking back – I can’t blame them for laughing. There wasn’t a lot to laugh about then. I didn’t realize until much later.” Victor is quiet for a moment.

_If Victor was three or four… oh. That was right after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Yeah, I guess it would have been hard to laugh in those days._

“You started surprising them right from the start,” says Yuuri.

“Zhenya wasn’t surprised, though. I never surprise her,” says Victor. He glances at Yuuri with a smile. “She knew about you before I did.”

Yuuri’s heart makes a strange hop in his chest. “Oh. And she’s okay with it? With me?”

“She’s okay with anything that makes me happy,” says Victor. He takes his hand off the wheel to squeeze Yuuri’s. “You’ll like her.”

_I hope so_.

Yuuri’s pleasantly warm by the time they pull off the highway, some forty-five minutes after they started. Makkachin’s wriggling at Yuuri’s feet, whimpering softly even as Yuuri scratches her behind her ears and makes shushing sounds.

“Wow,” says Yuuri, leaning over to get a better look at the bits of civilization around them. “Your sister lives in Russia!”

Victor laughs. “Yuuri, _we_ live in Russia.”

“No, I mean – this looks like what I _thought_ Russia looked like,” explains Yuuri. “We live in the middle of a city. Except for the churches and the Russians and the freezing weather, it could be anywhere.”

“Oh, well, when you put it _that_ way,” says Victor, amused.

The further they’d driven out of Saint Petersburg, the thicker the snow covering the ground had become. Even before they’d left the highway, the entire world had gone white: the asphalt was frosted, road signs had tufts of snow in the corners, and the overcast sky hung so low that Yuuri thought he could reach up and touch it.

Zhenya’s house is somewhere in the middle of nowhere – or it seems like it, since all Yuuri can see is the white snow and white trees and white sky. White everywhere, including the tall walls that line the road, without any numbers or indication which door leads to which house. Yuuri isn’t even sure how Victor knows where to pull in. Victor pulls down the sunshade, revealing two garage door openers, and hits one to open the wide doors for the car, and then they’re inside.

“Wow,” says Yuuri, peering at the house sitting at the end of the long lane. It’s not quite so white inside the walls: there’s evidence of a garden on either side of the drive, though it’s covered in snow and bright blue tarps to keep the ground safe during the winter.  Evergreen trees dot the area, interspersed with playground equipment. The snow has been cleared from the swings and the basketball hoop, and there’s a few abandoned sleds and other snow toys scattered around.

Victor parks the car next to a large black Mercedes SUV, which solves the question of what happened to Victor’s Olympic Mercedes. Yuuri thinks longingly of heated seats and powerful fans blowing warm air into his face.

Makkachin wriggles on Yuuri’s feet; it’s either open the door to let her out, or risk her jumping straight through the window and making the return home even colder. Yuuri opts for the door.

He immediately wishes he hadn’t. It’s _freezing_.

Makkachin races out into the snow, quickly rolling once before racing up to the house with a single, happy bark. She races back to Victor, who’s already popped the trunk and extracted a box.

“Yes, I’m sure they know we’re here,” Victor assures her. “Yuuri?”

“Coming,” says Yuuri – the sooner the boxes are inside, the sooner _they’re_ inside, and inside has to be warmer than outside.

The house is large and handsome, a three-story building outlined in dark wooden beams, with dark windows and a steep roof on top. Smoke climbs lazily out of the two chimneys on either end of the house. Every window is tightly curtained – probably to ward off the chill, thinks Yuuri, though he wouldn’t have minded a quick glimpse inside. Just to get his bearings before—

The door opens and Makkachin sets off at a full gallop toward the woman who leans out of the house.

The first thing that strikes Yuuri is that she’s _pretty_. She doesn’t look like she’s forty; she’s slender and willowy, a bit like Victor. Her hair is the type of golden blonde that is meant to look natural but probably isn’t, pulled up in a messy twist behind her head. She’s wearing thick grey socks, grey slacks, and a bright blue sweater that looks fuzzy and soft and warm. She’s smiling the same wide, heart-shaped smile that Victor and Sergei share.

Zhenya. Undoubtedly, absolutely, positively.

_She’s gorgeous_ , thinks Yuuri.

“You’re late!” she accuses in English, which is undoubtedly for Yuuri’s benefit. Her accent is heavier than Victor’s, but still understandable. He’s inclined to like her already.

 “Surprise!” says Victor cheerfully as he climbs the steps up to the door.

The woman snorts. “And how is _that_ a surprise?” She moves aside to let Victor in, but takes Yuuri’s box from him. “Horrible man, making your fiancé work on Christmas!”

“It’s not heavy,” protests Yuuri. The house is _blissfully_ warm after the frigid yard. Yuuri can feel his nose and ears and cheeks start to defrost.

“As if the weight matters!” She sets the box down on the nearest table and closes the door behind Yuuri. Before he can step away, she takes his hands and kisses his cheeks. “So this is your Yuuri! How handsome. Why are you settling for my brother, eh?”

“You were already taken,” says Victor.

“Charmer!”

“Yuuri, this is my sister, Zhenya,” continues Victor. “Zhenya, meet Yuuri.”

This, Yuuri knows how to do. He extricates himself from Zhenya’s arms and gives a deep bow.

“ _Ochen’ priyatno,_ Zhenya-neesan,” says Yuuri. When he comes back up, he sees Zhenya laughing behind her hands. There’s a sparkle to her eyes that reminds him of icicles on bright mornings.

Somehow, he doesn’t mind her laughter. It doesn’t feel as if she’s laughing _at_ him at all.

Yuuri thinks he might be falling a little bit in love with her.

“Vitya, I’m going to steal him from you,” sings Zhenya.

“Try,” says Victor, amused and confident.

“Okay,” says Yuuri, a bit goofily, as he falls a little more.

“Yuuri!” cries Victor, scandalized, but Zhenya just laughs harder.

There’s a rumbling sound from up above. Zhenya cocks her head before moving Yuuri to the side.

“Stand there,” she says sweetly, just before elephants come hurtling around the corner.

Elephants in the form of three boys of indeterminate ages who plow straight into Victor, sending him flying to the floor. They straddle and sit on him, poke their fingers into his pockets and shout in Russian. Makkachin sits down next to them, wagging her tail and helpfully offering suggestions via barking.

The boys are followed by a toddler wearing a frilly pink-and-white dress, blonde hair in pigtails tied with wide ribbons. She flings herself with complete abandon on top of the pile.

“Oof,” says Victor, somewhere under the children. He doesn’t _sound_ particularly hurt, but all Yuuri can really see of him is his hands and his feet.

“The horde,” Zhenya tells Yuuri, who isn’t sure if he’s horrified or deeply amused. “Also known as my children.”

“ _Dyadya Vitya, dyadya Vitya!_ ”

“Um. Is he okay?” Yuuri asks, replaying the image of Victor flying again.

“Probably,” says Zhenya. She reaches down and plucks the toddler off the pile. “It’s a very soft carpet.”

The toddler sits comfortably on Zhenya’s hip and points at Yuuri. “Dyadya!” she proclaims proudly.

“Not yet,” says Zhenya. “Your dyadya Vitya has to marry him first.”

Yuuri flushes. _Oh! Dyadya must mean uncle._

“Dyadya,” insists the toddler.

“Vitya!” says Zhenya to the heap on the floor. “When are you going to marry this boy and stop confusing your niece?”

“I don’t know,” says Victor’s voice from somewhere under the pile of children. “When will your children let me off the floor?”

Zhenya switches to Russian and says something to the boys, who finally get up and go racing up the stairs, Makkachin at their heels. The little girl wriggles until Zhenya puts her down, and then she’s off after them, climbing the stairs as easily as anything, crying out for her brothers to slow down.

Victor sits up and glares balefully at Zhenya and Yuuri. “You _told_ them to do that.”

“When people are late arriving, I have time for the details,” says Zhenya sweetly. She leans over to kiss Yuuri’s cheek again. “Welcome to the family, Yuuri.”

*

Victor’s family is exhausting in the best of ways. The boys never stop moving, not even when they pass through the kitchen, eating everything in their path. Zhenya grabs them by their shoulders when she can, turns them to Yuuri, and introduces them one by one. Mikhail, Anton, Grigory, all between the ages of six and eleven. Only the eldest, Mikhail, has any English at all, though the others at least have learned how to say _hello_ in Google-accented Japanese. The six-year-old, Grigory, is particularly fond of the word, and shouts it at Yuuri every chance he gets.

“I think his Japanese is better than yours, Vitya,” says Yuuri brightly after an hour and three vodka toasts. Zhenya’s husband Vasily lets out a roar of laughter and gives Yuuri another round of vodka. Victor gives Yuuri a playfully mournful look until Yuuri, emboldened by alcohol, gives him a kiss on his cheek while the boys shriek in horror.

Victor’s nephews all talk as loudly as they can, every chance they can. They shout for _Mama_ and _Papa_ and _Dyadya Vitya_ and even _Dyadya Yuura_. The unfamiliar diminutive combined with the honorific makes Yuuri think they’re calling for someone else, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, he kind of likes it. Besides, Yuuri can tell from the way Victor’s smiles burst with love how happy he is for Yuuri to be surrounded by his relatives.

Mikhail and Anton are determined to teach Yuuri every terrible Russian phrase they know – which is a lot. Grigory wants Yuuri to play with every train in his sizable collection. The baby, Sveta, crawls into his lap, demanding he read her an incomprehensible picture book written in Cyrillic.

Lunch is overwhelming. Yuuri’s read about groaning tables; he never thought he’d _see_ one. He can barely see the plastic-lace tablecloth for all the dishes Zhenya piles on it, and Vasily makes sure that as soon as Yuuri takes a bite of anything, there’s another morsel of food put on his plate to take its place. But he never feels uncomfortable or left out – it doesn’t take long to realize that Zhenya is as much of a Victor Nikiforov fangirl as Yuuri is a fanboy. Soon they’re talking about his career in eager, excited English, while Victor’s ears grow redder and redder and his smile gets wider and wider.

It’s later, while Zhenya puts Sveta down for a nap, and Vasily shovels the drive clear of the snow that’s been continuously falling, that Yuuri has a quiet moment to himself. The solitude is a relief.

Yuuri stands by the window in the front room, cradling the mug of hot tea and breathing in the steam while he watches Makkachin play in the snow with the boys. They’re so bundled up that he can barely see their noses, and Makkachin is covered in snow and completely happy. He can hear the shouts and barks faintly through the glass, but otherwise it’s quiet inside the room except for Victor’s soft snoring on the couch behind him.

He’s lost count of how much wine he had before, during, and even after lunch: a slow, drawn-out affair where the food was secondary to the conversation. He doesn’t feel tipsy or bloated at all, despite the amount of food and drink he had consumed.

_Maybe that’s how Vitya does it. We were eating the entire time. Maybe it’s all those Russian salads that soak all the alcohol up. I’ll have to remember that._

The creaking on the stairs in the hall isn’t startling – somehow, it just makes everything seem cozier, more comforting.

Zhenya’s voice at the door is welcome, even if it does break the silence. “Ah, there you are, I was wondering—”

Yuuri turns and starts waving her off – but she’s cut herself off already, smiling fondly where Victor is curled up on the couch, head resting on an atrocious needlepoint pillow.

“Two down,” she whispers. She pulls the top off the settees in the corner to reveal a hidden compartment full of crochet blankets, most of which remind Yuuri of the one at home on their bed. Yuuri watches as she tucks her brother in and brushes the hair lightly from his face. When she joins Yuuri at the window, she’s still smiling.

“He’ll fall asleep anywhere,” she says quietly. “He fell asleep on the roof once when he was small.”

“The _roof_?”

Zhenya nods. “We still don’t know how he got up there. We spent hours looking for him. Our parents nearly called the police, they were so worried.” She touches Yuuri’s elbow. “Come on, we’ll let him rest. I have something to show you that I think you’ll like.”

Zhenya leads him back up the stairs to a small room at the end of the first floor; it’s tiny and a bit chilly compared to the rest of the blissfully warm house. The boxes that he and Victor had lugged inside earlier are sitting in a pile in the center of the room, along with the boxes Yuuri remembers shipping from Hasetsu weeks before.

But that’s not what catches Yuuri’s attention. Every wall in the room is covered: posters of Victor in his costumes, framed pictures of Victor practicing or on podiums or with other skaters or coaches, with shelves piled with plushies and trophies and framed photographs. There are plasticine figures and obviously home-made ceramic keepsakes, commemorative plates and a few ornaments hanging from hooks. There’s even an egg or two, carefully painted with images of Victor in his costumes.

“Oh,” says Yuuri, staring around him in surprise.

The sound of a box being ripped open catches his attention again. Zhenya opens one of the boxes that Victor sent from Japan, filled with the costumes Yuuri and Yurio didn’t choose.

“You’re the one who mounted the medals in his apartment, aren’t you?” he asks Zhenya.

“You didn’t think _he_ would?” snorts Zhenya. “If it were up to him, they’d be squashed in the back of his closet. Or still shoved in the bottom of one of his skate bags. Horrible boy. I have to dig his costumes out of his apartment at the end of every season and get them dry-cleaned and put away or he’d lose them entirely.”

“You keep them here?”

“Of course. Who do you think mailed them to you in Japan?” says Zhenya. She pulls out the first costume – an all-black unitard with spangles and sparkles and zippers in strange places. Yurio had threatened to wear it with a dog collar before he’d accused Victor of wearing his kinks on his sleeve. “Not all of them, of course – just the older ones, because you and Yuri are so much smaller than he is.”

Zhenya shakes out the costume before folding it again and slipping it back into its protective sleeve, already marked with Victor’s name and a year and a few other words in Cyrillic that Yuuri can’t read – most likely the name of the program. She walks it over to one of the dressers, where she lays it carefully in a drawer.

_Wow. She’s really organized. With four kids, though, I guess she’d have to be._ Yuuri rubs the back of his neck. “Heh. Well, you picked out some good ones to send.”

“And some horrible ones, too,” agrees Zhenya, pulling out the next costume and coughing as some of the neon-colored feathers flutter to the floor. “I think he chose this one just to annoy me.”

Yuuri grins. “Second year in Juniors, short program. Papageno from _The Magic Flute_.”

“Horrible,” repeats Zhenya firmly. She nods her head at the wall behind Yuuri as she shoves the costume into its bag. “Look at the figures – there’s more, of course, but I keep my favorites on display.”

Yuuri goes to look and starts laughing almost immediately. “Are these _dolls_? Wearing his costumes?”

“He has a very good fan who does them every year,” says Zhenya, amused. “Somewhere in America. Every costume is hand-sewn – lovely, aren’t they? I think she switches the heads with the bodies so she can have the longer hair to style. She even takes the time to dye it silver.”

“Wow,” says Yuuri, peering at the pink costume from _Stammi_. The face isn’t a thing like Victor’s – but the hair is very similar, and the costume is amazingly accurate. “I think I’m jealous. I’ve never had anything this good given to me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think your egg is lovely. Victor posted pictures of it on his Instagram.”

Yuuri grins. “It really is. I’ll show it to you if you’re ever in town.”

“It’s here?” Zhenya’s eyes light up. “I thought you’d have left it in Japan.”

Yuuri shakes his head, laughing when he spots the doll wearing his Eros costume. “I think I recognize this one.”

“I’m glad you picked it. It was the most expensive costume he owned for the longest time, but he outgrew it after that season,” says Zhenya. “He couldn’t even use it for exhibitions, because he shot straight up four inches the following summer. It made a mess of his Senior debut. Not the only thing that derailed him, but his growth spurt didn’t help.”

Yuuri nods. It’s clear that Zhenya expects him to know about Victor’s debut, but while Yuuri remembers it being a difficult year where Victor didn’t place higher than bronze, he can’t think of why it’s particularly notable for any other reason. He turns to the wall of photographs; they’re not just promotional photos, but photos of Victor going back to when he was small and clearly just learning how to skate. There’s one of Victor, around seven or eight, feet still turned inward and looking as if he’s about to collapse on the ice. The grin on his face stretches from ear to ear, and his hair sticks straight up from his head as a woman standing behind him pulls the hat off his head.

She’s laughing, brown hair soft around her shoulders, a heart-shaped smile that’s far too familiar. The way she looks at Victor… as if she doesn’t want to look anywhere else…

“Zhenya,” says Yuuri, staring at the picture. “Is this your mother?”

Zhenya looks at the photo over Yuuri’s shoulder. “Yes. You haven’t seen her picture before?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I don’t think Victor keeps any in the apartment.”

“Hmm.” Zhenya continues folding the costume in her hands. “I would say I’m surprised, but…” She shrugs. “It was very hard on Victor when our parents died. Not that it wasn’t hard for me and Sergei, but we’d already left home. Victor had too, I suppose – he was living at Yubileynyy by then, but he still came home every Sunday to play with Makkachin.”

“Makkachin lived with your parents?”

“I know the public perception is that she was always Victor’s, but it’s not true. She belonged to all of us. Vitaly and I kept her for a while after the accident, but tiny babies make her very nervous, and Misha was so colicky that she just hid under the bed all the time. Sergei wasn’t allowed to have pets in his apartment, so the moment he could afford it, Victor purchased his apartment and took her in.”

_An accident_ , realizes Yuuri. _That’s right. Victor’s parents were killed in a car accident when he was seventeen._

_Right after his Senior debut._

_How did I forget that?_

“There’s a few things of Makkachin, too,” adds Zhenya brightly. “Plushies, of course, but my favorite is the art.”

“Art?” echoes Yuuri. Zhenya points out the corner where every single framed item is a drawing or painting of the dog, including one of Makkachin and Victor that Yuuri recognizes as a copy of a photograph that had been featured in a figure skating magazine when he was a kid. “Wow. He gets all of these at competitions? All I ever get are flowers and plushies.”

“Oh, no – most of these are mailed to him. The amount of fanmail he gets is atrocious.”

There’s a tiny glimmer of a thought in Yuuri’s head – he’s not sure if it’s a good one or a bad one. “You keep his fanmail, too?”

“Of course! How else am I going to turn this house into the Victor Nikiforov Museum one day?” laughs Zhenya. “Why? Did you send him something once?”

Yuuri’s face goes hot, and he can’t quite meet Zhenya’s eyes. When he does glance at her, he’s horrified to realize that Zhenya looks utterly _delighted._

“You _did_ ,” she breathes, her eyes going wide and starry, just like Victor’s when Yuuri surprises him. “Oh, that’s _fantastic_. Let’s find it.”

“It was years ago – I don’t even remember what I wrote. Or where I sent it! It might not be here,” Yuuri says hastily. “You can’t have kept _everything._ ”

“Oh, I did,” says Zhenya, and she goes over to one of the massive filing cabinet. “Did you get a reply?”

Yuuri sighs. “An autographed picture,” he mumbles.

“Then it’s here, because we always send autographed pictures,” says Zhenya smugly. “What year?”

“I was twelve, so probably 2004.”

Zhenya quickly pulls open a drawer and extracts a thick folder of papers. “I had it arranged by year and place of origin – these are all the letters from Asia. You really don’t remember what you wrote?”

“No, it was an English assignment, we had a write a letter to someone. I didn’t know anyone who spoke English apart from my family and Yuuko. I didn’t want to write a letter to them – I saw them every day – and I didn’t like the idea of writing a letter to someone who wouldn’t be able to read it. I figured Victor had to be learning _a little_ English, if he was going to be skating on the international circuit.”

Zhenya chuckles. “Suddenly all the letters he gets from that part of the world make sense. They read like English assignments, too.”

She flips through the letters one by one. Yuuri catches glimpses of neatly printed salutations and dates, written in red or blue or black ink, decorated with stickers and carefully drawn hearts. Each page is stapled to an envelope, and the return addresses are a mixed bag of Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Thai.

“Why keep all of it?” asks Yuuri, curiously. “I mean – they’re letters from over a decade ago. Half the people who wrote them probably don’t remember doing it.”

Zhenya glances up at him. “Because the letters meant something when they _did_ write them. And because you never know who’s going to show up at your door one day.”

She pulls a letter out of the pile and hands it to Yuuri with a flourish. “Here you are, Katsuki Yuuri. Your letter to Victor.”

The handwriting is familiar, as is the paper. Now that he sees it, Yuuri remembers sitting in his room, listening to the birds in the trees, and carefully forming every letter, daydreaming about _Victor Nikiforov_ holding the same paper in his hands.

And here it is – back in Yuuri’s hands.

“Oh wow.” Yuuri turns the page over to see the drawing he’d included. “I forgot I sent him this!”

“What _is_ that?” says Zhenya.

“I sent him an idea for his short program. See, here’s the costume. I suggested music and what jumps he should do, too.” Yuuri grins, looking at the pages.

_I remember writing the letter – I don’t remember drawing the picture, though. Or sending him the program…_

He reads through the jumps.

_Double toe loop, double Sal double Lutz combination… oh. Oh no._

Yuuri holds the paper closer and scans the program faster.

_I didn’t! Oh no – I did._

“Oh. _Oh no_.”

“What?” asks Zhenya. She pulls the paper from Yuuri to scan it. “He didn’t _use_ it, did he?”

“No,” groans Yuuri. “ _I_ did. I sent him a plan for a program he should use and _then I used it myself_.”

Zhenya bursts into laughter.

“Don’t laugh! What if he’d _seen_ this and then actually decided to use it? And we both skated to the same music with the same jumps?”

“As if that’s never happened,” says Zhenya, chortling. “Skaters use the same music all the time. Besides, you were twelve, you were still a Novice, yes? Vitya was in Seniors. Who would have even noticed – or cared, if they did?”

“But with the same _jumps_?”

“Oh, Yuuri – it didn’t happen!”

“Only because he probably never read it,” groaned Yuuri.

“Never read what?” asks Victor from the doorway.

“Oh, you’re awake!” says Zhenya brightly. “Just in time, you should see—”

Yuuri snatches the letter from Zhenya. “Nothing. You should see _nothing_.”

“Yuuri wrote you a letter,” says Zhenya cheerfully. “When he was twelve.”

Victor looks delighted, but Yuuri immediately holds the letter to his chest and crosses his arms over it.

“No, Victor,” he said firmly.

“Yes, Victor,” says Victor. He’s standing in front of Yuuri in two steps, holding Yuuri’s wrists as he leans in to kiss his mouth. Yuuri tries not to budge or respond, but then Victor _licks_ his lips, the sharp point of his tongue tickling just enough that Yuuri sucks in a breath in surprise.

The letter flutters to the floor, and Zhenya scoops it up. She hands it to Victor, who moves away before Yuuri can grab it back.

“Wow!” says Victor, eyes bright as he scans the letter. “Yuuri! Your handwriting is _adorable_!”

Yuuri groans. “I was _twelve_. It was a class assignment!”

“ _Dear Victor Nikiforov_ – so formal, Yuuri! _My name is Katsuki Yuuri. Yuuri is my given name and Katsuki is my family name._ Very helpful information, Yuuri, I still sometimes don’t know which name is which.”

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” groans Yuuri and covers his face with his hands.

“ _I am twelve years old and I will move up to the Junior division in figure skating next year._ Zhenya, have you seen photos of Yuuri at twelve years old? He was _precious_. Chubby cheeks and hair in all directions.”

“I’m sure,” says Zhenya, amused.

“ _Stooooooopppppp_ ,” moans Yuuri.

“ _I loved your Sun and Moon short program last year_ – oh, _Yuuri_ , really? _That_ program?”

“Shut up,” says Yuuri, suddenly fierce. “I _did_ love that program, you aren’t allowed to make fun of me for it.”

Victor doesn’t look a bit abashed. “Okay,” he says cheerfully, and turns back to the letter. “ _I think you should skate to Romeo and Juliet by_ —” Victor looks up. “Yuuri. _You_ skated to Romeo and Juliet.”

Yuuri groans and sinks to the floor. Zhenya lets out another peal of laughter.

“Yuuuuuuri. Did you send me a program and then _steal it back_?”

Yuuri doesn’t answer. He’s too busy dying.

“And look! You drew me a costume, too!”

“I should have written to Kristy Yamaguchi,” says Yuuri to the carpet. “She’s pretty. She could have shown up and offered to coach me. Totally okay scenario.”

“Don’t be silly, she was retired by then,” says Victor. “Of course, it would have been much safer to send her a program you intended to skate since she would have been less likely to use it.”

Yuuri wants to wail – but remembers the sleeping toddler down the hall just in time. “I didn’t know I was going to _skate_ it!” he hisses. “I don’t even remember sending it – don’t act as if you remember reading it.”

Victor looks at Zhenya, who shrugs. “You probably did – you liked to at least look at them. And Mama always made you sign the letters back to the very young ones.” She glances at Yuuri. “Though I’m not sure she would have considered twelve to be very young.”

“I did get a photograph, though,” admits Yuuri. Victor brightens again.

“Is that the one you had on your desk in Hasetsu?”

Yuuri groans again and falls backwards on the rug. “I’m never going to live this down.”

“Really, I’m the one who should be ashamed,” remarks Victor, looking at the letter again. “You sent me a _program_ , Yuuri! I could have at least _considered_ the music.”

“What a pity you’ve already picked music,” says Yuuri sweetly. “Or you could use this. It’s even _romantic_.”

“Mmm,” agrees Victor, but he looks vaguely uncomfortable as he scans Yuuri’s decade-old suggested program. “Skating to Romeo and Juliet – and based on a program you wrote to me ten years ago? What a way to surprise people!”

“Oh, it’d surprise them all right,” agrees Zhenya.

Yuuri shakes his head. “Vitya, I was _joking_. Look at it, it’s _terrible_. It’s all doubles and barely any triples. I don’t think I put a single quad in there. You were better than this even when I sent it to you.”

“You did it.”

“I was twelve! And – wait! How do you know I skated to Romeo and Juliet when I was twelve?”

Victor flushes. “Oh. Um. Wow! Do you hear Makkachin barking? I think I should check on her—”

Victor pushes up to his feet, but Yuuri’s faster and grabs him by the ankle. “Oh, no you don’t – come back here, Nikiforov!”

Victor stumbles back to the ground and the letter skitters across the floor. Yuuri crawls over Victor as he turns over onto his back.

“Kinky, Yuuri!”

“Don’t change the subject. How do you know what I skated—” Yuuri sucks in a breath. “ _Yuuko_.”

“And Minako,” says Victor, cheerfully selling her out. “The video quality was horrible, but it was enough to give me a good idea.”

“ _Ussō_ ,” groans Yuuri, and sinks down to Victor’s chest. Victor immediately wraps his arms around Yuuri, chuckling.

“Fair’s fair,” says Victor. “You saw my Junior skates. As your coach, it is important for me to understand your rate of progress—”

Yuuri pushes back up and kisses him. As a way of shutting Victor up, it’s very effective.

Until Zhenya clears her throat and reminds them they aren’t alone, anyway.

“You know,” says Zhenya, which sends Yuuri rolling right off Victor and onto his back next to him, staring at the ceiling while his heart pounds. “I think I hear Makkachin. I’ll just go check. You two carry on!”

Zhenya shuts the door behind her, but Yuuri can’t move. He’s not entirely sure he can feel any part of his body except for the heart that’s about to pound straight out of his chest.

“I think she likes you,” says Victor.

Yuuri groans.

*

Victor can’t get the letter out of his mind. He watches Yuuri as the family opens the presents sent from Hasetsu – kimonos and obi and geta, as well as original art purchased from one of the artists who displayed their talents by Hasetsu Bay on warm summer nights. He watches Yuuri unwrap the rice cooker Zhenya purchased for him. It’s clear that Yuuri is touched from the flush on the back of his neck and the way he keeps glancing at the box, unable to set it aside.

_I should have thought of buying one_ , thinks Victor, but at least Zhenya did. He mouths a _spasibo_ at her when she looks over at him with a wink.

It’s easy enough to think of a twelve-year-old Yuuri, tongue between his teeth as he writes the unfamiliar characters on the paper. Daydreaming about the letter he’d receive in return, maybe even daydreaming about watching Victor skate to his program the following year….

_And all I sent back was a signed photograph. Like it was just another letter. How disappointed he must have been._

Yuuri and Zhenya kiss goodbye, smiling as if they’ve made fast friends. They probably have, thinks Victor, remembering the gentle voices that had woken him from his nap, the way they’d bonded over their mutual fanning over him.

_It was just another letter, though. How many letters like that have I received over the years? How could I expect to know that kid would grow up to be Yuuri?_

_And then he went and skated it… music he’d picked. Jumps he knew he could do…_

_Why didn’t he ever do that again?_

It’s on the ride back to Saint Petersburg that he finally speaks up. Makkachin is curled on her blanket in the now-spacious backseat, exhausted from running after the children all afternoon. Yuuri has been quiet for the last twenty minutes – no doubt processing and thinking and going over the entire day, the way he always does after an extended period with new people.

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri shifts on the seat next to him. He yawns a little, his voice thick with sleep. “Hmm?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were asleep.”

“It’s fine,” says Yuuri, sitting up a bit more. “What is it?”

Victor takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “Was it my fault?”

“Huh?”

“Celestino said you never came to him with music for your programs. I was just thinking… was it my fault? Because I never answered your letter?”

Yuuri doesn’t answer right away. Victor tries to remember that Yuuri’s just woken from a doze, might not even remember the conversation about the letter. Probably doesn’t remember the series of events that led to him skating _Romeo and Juliet_ , even. It’d been half a lifetime before, after all.

“Vitya,” says Yuuri gently. The name’s enough to settle most of Victor’s worries almost immediately. “I was twelve. You were sixteen. Did you _see_ the number of letters you got? Anyway, I don’t think I ever expected that you’d really read it.”

“You knew I did, though,” says Victor softly. He keeps his eyes on the road – it’s dark out, and it’s begun snowing lightly again. The little Cooper trundles along, a warm little cocoon in the soft night. “You have the picture on your desk to prove it.”

“I knew _someone_ saw it. Your manager or agent or someone hired to handle your mail.” Yuuri pauses. “I didn’t know your mother handled your mail.”

There’s a tight knot in Victor’s throat – not so much that he would choke on it, but he remembers sitting at the kitchen table Sunday mornings, a pile of letters on one side and a plate of pancakes dripping with jam on the other. Sign and eat, sign and eat… and all the while his mother hovered in the background, laughing and teaching the puppy how to sit with a pancake as reward.

The puppy is an old lady now, sleeping off her afternoon of play. Svetlana Nikiforovna’s laughter only lives in Victor’s memory, and it’s been so many years since he’s heard it, he’s not sure he even remembers it correctly anymore.

“She liked doing it.”

“What was her name?”

“Svetlana. Sveta’s named for her.” Victor smiles to himself, remembering. “My father called her Svetochka.”

_You can’t ignore them, Viten’ka,_ his mother would scold. _They wrote because they want to think of you reading them._

Victor sits up a little bit straighter. “Anyway, you’re changing the subject. You can’t tell me you weren’t disappointed when I didn’t skate it the next season. Or wear anything resembling your costume design.”

“I don’t even really remember the program that well, Vitya. Maybe I was upset then? I’m not anymore.” He settles back in his seat. “The choices I made about my skating weren’t _always_ about you.”

“Just most of the time,” clarifies Victor. He can’t help the smile on his face.

“I could always skate to it again,” muses Yuuri sleepily. “Look, world, at this lovely program I designed for Victor that he ignored. _Mu’dak_.”

Victor frowns. “My nephews are a worse influence on you than Yura is.”

Yuuri laughs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Usso (Japanese) – Oh my God  
> Mu’dak (Russian) – Asshole


	17. Normalcy (or something like it)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who are very observant will have noticed that this is now a series (with the terribly unimaginative name of The Next Level 'Verse. Incidentally, my children's stuffed animals are named Bear and Bunny and Tiger and T-Rex. Let's just say the kids are lucky they're not numbered.) The series is primarily because I have several scenes that do not fit in the story as a whole, but which I wanted to share with you. This week marks the first such story, which you're welcome to read immediately following this chapter.

The Christmas presents from Zhenya and her family are still sitting on the table when Yuuri finally emerges from the bedroom the next morning. Yuuri barely sighs over the still-dark sky outside the windows – or the empty space next to him in the bed, where Victor _should_ have been sleeping. Makkachin pads after Yuuri, flopping onto the couch with a heavy sigh.

“Victor’ll be back soon,” Yuuri assures the dog, whose tail hits the couch in mild protest. “It’s Sunday, the rink is closed. He’s probably just downstairs on the treadmill.”

Makkachin’s tail hits the couch twice more.

Yuuri should probably go join Victor; surely it’s what Victor would expect. But the pile of presents on the table is daunting. Yuuri keeps himself busy trying to find a place to put them all. Clothes go into the laundry, teas and chocolates are put in the appropriate cupboards. Yuuri’s eyeing the box with the rice cooker, trying to decide if he wants to unpack it now and read through the instructions, or wait until he’s actually purchased rice, when he hears the Skype notification from his phone.

“Well, look who’s finally home!” Mari’s voice is like instant relief. Yuuri grins when her image finally comes through, shaky and out of focus.

The grin fades the moment he realizes what Mari’s _doing_.

“Mari, are you – are you hanging my posters back up in my room?!?”

“Well, it’s not like Victor doesn’t know you own them,” says Mari. “And they’d probably get torn or something if we left them under your bed.”

 Yuuri groans. “I thought you were going to turn it into a guest room.”

“Mom won’t let us. But I think we could still rent it out as the Katsuki Yuuri Dreams Come True Suite, what do you think?”

“I better get a cut if you do.”

“I was just going to leave you a video tour, but since I got you, want to tell me if I hung them in the right places?”

“No,” laughs Yuuri. “Where are Mom and Dad?”

“Mom’s got the triplets in the kitchen and Dad and Nishigori are trying to fix the broken thermostat in pool six.”

Yuuri frowns. “The one that’s always five degrees off?”

“Not anymore. Now it’s fifteen degrees off.”

“He needs to hire someone to come in and look at it. He’s tried to fix it for seven years and it just keeps breaking.”

“That’s what I _told_ him, but you know Dad—"

It’s too easy to get back into the flow of conversation with Mari. Before Yuuri knows it, he’s moved from the couch to the kitchen, refilled Makkachin’s water bowl, started a load of laundry, and propped his cell phone up on the counter so that he can start in on breakfast while he and Mari hammer out the details on a new online reservation system she wants to implement.

A conversation entirely in Japanese isn’t without its comforts, either. It’s a relief to be able to just _talk_ , without having to think about translating his meaning and hoping the words he knows are enough to convey what he feels.

“Ahhhh, you’re frozen again!” complains Mari.

“Sorry, Victor’s Wi-Fi isn’t very strong in the kitchen,” Yuuri apologizes. He stops chopping the onions long enough to tap at his phone until the picture unfreezes.

“Which reminds me, have you gotten your Russian SIM card yet? It’s been over a week.” When Yuuri groans and looks away, Mari’s tone turns scolding. “ _Yuuri_. Man does not exist on Wi-Fi alone!”

“Now you sound like Phichit,” grumbles Yuuri. “It’s not that my phone _doesn’t_ work, it’s that the roaming charges are horrible.”

“You should listen to Phichit, if you won’t listen to us.”

The light in the kitchen slowly turns yellow and gold with the rising sun. _Finally_ , thinks Yuuri relieved. _Victor should be coming back up soon._ “You can still call me for emergencies, just not for talking about the current temperature in the onsen.”

“Fantastic. We’ll be sure to call when Mom and Dad start arguing about whether to get bamboo or cherrywood sudare, okay?”

“Ugh, _no_. I already spent eighteen years listening to that argument, I’m not subjecting Victor to it. We’re going out to get my SIM card today,” Yuuri assures her.

“I don’t know why you didn’t just get one at the airport.”

“They don’t sell them from vending machines here,” Yuuri tells her. “I have to go to a store.”

“You’ve been there a _week_ , you can’t honestly tell me you haven’t been able to stop by _somewhere_!”

“Not really!” protests Yuuri. He slides the chopped onion to the side of the cutting board and reaches for the green pepper. “Mari, you should _see_ the athletic complex. It’s amazing. Everything we could ever want under one roof.”

“Except SIM cards.”

“Well, yeah,” admits Yuuri. “I’ll try harder this week. We’ve just been so _busy_ —”

“Hey, little brother, I’m all in favor of you getting laid on a regular basis—”

Yuuri drops the knife with a clatter. “THAT’S NOT WHAT WE’RE DOING!!!”

“—But Mom and Dad are old, and if I need to get hold of you in an emergency—”

“What?  _What?!?_ Mari! Are Mom and Dad okay?”

“Yes, they’re fine! They’re just… I don’t know! Old!”

Yuuri groans as his head hits the counter. “Don’t give me a heart attack! Mom just turned fifty! That’s not so old.”

“Fine! We all die in a fiery onsen-related thermostat explosion. I guess we could leave you a message on Skype or something.”

Yuuri makes a strange, half-keening, half-yelling noise before he lifts his head. “I know, I know! If it makes you feel any better, Phichit’s been sending me every sad emoji over Twitter and WhatsApp that he can find.”

There’s a soft _ping_ from Yuuri’s phone.

“Speak of the devil,” says Mari cheerfully.

“Not Phichit’s tone,” says Yuuri. “Hold on, Mari.”

**Mila**  
Hi, Yuuri! Can I come use your oven?

It’s not the oddest message Yuuri’s ever received… but he’s not entirely sure why Mila’s asking him and not Victor. Or why she’d want to use their oven at all.

But she’s at least using WhatsApp, so he won’t have to pay the roaming charges for a text.

**Yuuri**  
Sure? Do I need to tell the doorman to let you in or something?

**Mila**  
Oh no, it’s fine! I know how to find you!

“Victor checking up on you?” teases Mari as Yuuri switches programs again.

“Victor doesn’t check up on me,” says Yuuri automatically as he props his phone up against the electric kettle. “No, one of the other skaters wants to use the oven. I don’t know why.”

Mari smiles. It’s her typical small smile, the one she only uses when she’s really pleased. “Huh. Would you look at that?”

“What?” Yuuri sets down the knife again. “Is there something on my shirt?”

“No. Just… you’re making friends. It took you two years in Detroit before you even _mentioned_ Phichit, and here you are, having a pal over one week after moving in.”

“It’s just Mila,” protests Yuuri. “She’s one of Victor’s teammates, you met her in Barcelona.”

“Still counts,” says Mari. She sounds _proud_. “I admit, I was worried you wouldn’t. You tend to be a one-friend sort of guy, you know. I didn’t like to think of you alone in a weird country with only Victor to talk to.”

“That’s not true,” says Yuuri, alarmed. “I knew lots of people in Detroit.”

“You’d never know it to hear from you, though. You talked about Phichit so often, Mom thought you were dating him.”

“Phichit’s _straight_.”

“Unrequited crush, then. Anyway, I’m glad you’re making friends. I know you love Victor, but he can’t be your entire world.”

“He’s not! I know that!”

“Good.” Mari glances over her shoulder. “Okay, I gotta go. Bake up a storm with your new bestie, okay?”

“Okay. Tell Mom and Dad I’ll call them later, okay?”

“I’ll send you an international text,” says Mari mischievously. She closes out the connection before Yuuri can even frown at her.

Yuuri’s long since finished chopping the vegetables and cleaning up the mess when he hears the locks in the door click. Everything’s waiting in the kitchen for breakfast; all he needs is for Victor to show up. In the meantime he’s curled up on the coach with Makkachin at his feet, trying to study the list of Russian verbs he’s supposed to conjugate for next week’s class.

The sound of the door opening is a welcome respite. He throws the textbook on the table just as the door opens.

“Oh, good, you’re home,” Yuuri begins.

Makkachin lifts her head – but instead of giving out a happy, welcoming bark, she lets out a frustrated _huff_ and settles back down on Yuuri’s feet.

“Hi,” says Mila cheerfully, stepping inside. Her hair curls up from under her hat, and there’s a shopping bag hanging from her arm. “I would have been here ten minutes ago, but I wasn’t sure if you had eggs. Victor is forever running out.”

Yuuri’s heart sinks like a stone. “I’ve got eggs,” he says, fairly sure the disappointment isn’t showing. “I didn’t know you had a key.”

“Oh, yes, Victor gave it to me ages ago. The thing I miss the most about living at home is access to a kitchen, so Victor lets me use his. I thought I should ask you first, though, since you’re not at the rink with Victor—”

Yuuri sits straight up on the couch. “Victor’s at the _rink_?”

Mila’s eyes are wide. “Ah… yes? Didn’t you know? I saw his car pulling in as I was leaving the dorms.”

Yuuri’s thoughts swirl. _I thought he went running. I don’t know why I thought that._

Yuuri glances at the keyhooks on the wall. Sure enough, the key to Yubileynyy is missing.

“I guess he’s worried about Europeans,” says Yuuri, trying to sound a bit less upset than he feels. “He doesn’t want me to see the free skate – it’s a surprise, he says.”

There’s an odd, almost sympathetic look in Mila’s eyes. For a moment, Yuuri thinks she’s going to say something – and then he watches as her expression shifts.

“It’ll be wonderful. Victor always has the best surprises.”

“He always surprises me, anyway,” says Yuuri.

_Like now. It’s my own fault anyway. I shouldn’t have assumed he’d actually take a day off._

Yuuri pushes a smile onto his face as he stands up. “I have eggs, but I was going to use them for an omelet. Do you want some?”

“Oh, yes, that’d be lovely,” says Mila, leading the way into the kitchen.

*

It’s probably one of the worst ideas Victor’s ever had.

Not _the_ worst. _The_ worst was when he was turning fourteen and decided to try to hitch-hike out to Zhenya’s house the night before his birthday as a surprise to his family, instead of waiting for his parents to pick him up the next morning. It wasn’t very far but he hadn’t factored in that the weather was wont to change dramatically once he’d left the city, or that people might be hesitant to pick up a teenager on a lonely country road. By the time he reached Zhenya’s house, it was nearly midnight, every single person in it was asleep, and he had such a terrible case of pneumonia that he nearly missed Junior Nationals the following month.

He’d still gotten silver, though, so Yakov had forgiven him. Barely.

Skating alone in Yubileynyy isn’t much smarter. There’s guards, of course – but they’re nowhere near shouting distance if Victor were to truly hurt himself. Victor knows doing any kind of jumps or even some spins is dangerous. He knows the risks of falling and knocking himself unconscious, and what happens to bodies that remain on the ice for extended periods of time. Every couple of years, there’s a tale of woe that generally results in a skater’s name becoming just another formerly promising talent, soon forgotten.

Victor plugs his iPod into the sound system and queues up his free skate music, setting the player to repeat the song. He circles the ice as it plays the first time, running through the choreography in his head.

When it draws to a close, he pulls to the center of the ice and takes his position.

Yakov had been convinced that the program wasn’t worth salvaging.

But it’s the only program Victor has. If he can’t make every single person watching feel the same joy and love and excitement he feels when he’s with Yuuri… then what’s the point of trying?

When the music begins again, he’s ready to try.

*

“Yuuri,” sings Mila after she’s cleaned her plate of eggs and fluffy pancakes, “please say you’ll leave Victor and live with me instead. The beds in the dorms are terrible but I have a lovely hot plate.”

Yuuri laughs. “No, thank you, Mila.”

Mila eyes the remaining pancakes with the look of someone who knows they shouldn’t for fear of bursting, but wants another anyway. “Victor’s a fool, choosing the ice over this breakfast.”

Yuuri smiles as he clears the table. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“ _Liked_ it? Yuuri, I would sleep on Victor’s horrible couch every night if I thought I would have these pancakes in the morning.”

Yuuri grins as he rinses off the plates. “Not _every_ morning. Just… I was hoping for one more quiet morning in.”

“Ah.” Mila goes quiet. “Has Victor been skating a lot?”

“Every day, except for yesterday.”

“Every _day_?” Mila sits up in her seat. “But… when does he _rest_?”

“Yesterday,” says Yuuri flatly.

“That’s—”

“I know.” Yuuri glances at the rest of the dishes and decides to leave it all for later when he doesn’t have a guest. “Do you want some tea?”

“Is he an _idiot_?” exclaims Mila. “He’s going to _kill_ himself! He could tear a ligament!”

Yuuri sighs. “It’s only for a little while,” he says patiently. “Just until he’s ready.”

“Or injured,” says Mila darkly, but after a glance at Yuuri, she looks abashed enough to change her tone. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

It isn’t, and Yuuri has no idea what expression he’s making that reminded Mila of that. “What was it you wanted to make?”

“A tart,” says Mila, and pushes back from the table. She still sounds annoyed. “I should probably get started. Will he be home for lunch, do you think? I could have it ready for then.”

“I’m sure he’ll be back,” says Yuuri. “I should probably take Makkachin for a walk, are you all right if I—?”

“Yes, of course,” says Mila. She sounds impatient; Yuuri’s not sure if it’s with him, or Victor, or something else entirely.

_Probably me,_ he thinks. _If she’s had a key to Victor’s apartment, she’s probably used to having the place to herself sometimes. I doubt there’s much privacy in the dorms. I should clear out for a while_.

“Come on, Makka,” Yuuri says to the dog, who sits patiently waiting for her leash at the door. “Text me if you need me to pick anything up, Mila.”

“Of course,” says Mila, already shoulder-deep in one of Victor’s kitchen cabinets. “You go on, I’ll be fine here.”

The sun is as high in the sky as it ever is when Yuuri finally steps outside with Makkachin. There’s no cloud cover and very little wind to bite at his exposed skin. He can almost pretend that the feeble sunlight is warm, if he closes his eyes.

_Text me if you need anything._ The words had fallen from his mouth from sheer force of habit, from when _texting_ wasn’t anything he had to consider as an unnecessary expense.

_You need a Russian number_. Mari’s older-sister-knows-best voice is even more sensible in retrospect than in reality. Yuuri groans and fingers the phone in his coat pocket.

He’s not sure he’s not being ridiculously stubborn about his phone; after all, he could just keep using his Japanese number. Victor never switched to a Japanese number in Hasetsu, though he did switch to a Japanese interface in hopes of becoming more comfortable with the written language. Yuuri’s carrier even offers a world-wide plan – but it’s expensive, and Yuuri doesn’t have the endorsements or earning power of Victor Nikiforov.

Besides, Yuuri has the idea that if he’s truly committed to remaining with Victor, then a good way of showing that is to really put roots down in Russia. Even if those roots are just a phone number he can call his own.

_It’s a SIM card,_ Yuuri tells himself. _Going to a store isn’t as easy as using a vending machine – but people get new SIM cards this way all the time. It’ll be fine._

It doesn’t take long to walk to the cell phone store next to the restaurant where Sergei had taken them. It’s already open and Yuuri can see an employee talking to someone through the glass. They glance out at him with the grim, vaguely suspicious expressions that Yuuri’s started to realize is a default for most Russians – even Victor, at times.

Next to him, Makkachin lets out a plaintive whine – which at least partially explains why the men inside might be looking at him curiously.

Yuuri groans. _Ugh, I must still be jet lagged, thinking I could take Makkachin inside a store!_

He looks down at Makkachin, biting his lip. “I can’t take you in, Makka,” he says, but just as he’s about to admit defeat and turn around to go home, the door opens.

“ _Zakhodi, zakhodi,_ ” says the employee, waving his arm to indicate that he wants Yuuri to come in. Yuuri pauses only for a moment before allowing himself to be ushered into the store, Makkachin at his heels.

Yuuri has no idea what the man says in the stream of Russian that follows. “Eh… yes? I want to get a sim card for my phone?”

He pulls out his cell, and the employee’s eyes light up.

“Makkachin!” he shouts as he reaches for Yuuri’s phone. But instead of immediately taking it to the back to find a SIM card, he flips it over and points at the little Vicchans that run across the case. Another stream of Russian, this time directed to the man across the shop as he shows him Yuuri’s phone case, still exclaiming about Makkachin.

“It’s my dog, actually,” he offers hesitatingly. “Vicchan. Not Makkachin.”

The cell phone store employee leans over and shows the cell phone case to Makkachin, who happily woofs her agreement as she wags her tail and does nothing to defend Yuuri from overly enthusiastic Russians.

Who are _still talking_ in Russian, as if Yuuri doesn’t even exist.

 Yuuri gives up.

“Um, yes, thank you,” says Yuuri. “I was hoping to get a sim card for my phone?”

“Dmitri,” says the employee, tapping his chest, and then pointing to the customer. “ _Moy drug, _ Maxim.”

“Okay, Dmitri, Maxim, _strasvodye_ ,” says Yuuri. He’s already exhausted.

And then they’re both off to the races in Russian again, talking talking talking. At least now, Dmitri sets to work, popping off the phone’s cover to pull out the battery. He tsks and makes some kind of noise that makes Yuuri think he’d be lucky to get the phone back at all.

“Just a sim card,” calls Yuuri, reaching out for his phone.

Maxim hands him a cup of tea instead. “ _Chai, chai_!” he urges Yuuri, before turning back to Dmitri and shouting something in Russian.

_What on earth are they saying?!?! Wait, did he just say Japanese in Russian? Are they talking about me right in front of me?!?_

_Oh no. Now they’re talking about Americans? And… Russians? Oh no. Did I just wander into a front for a spy ring?!?!_

“Um, can I have my phone back?” asks Yuuri nervously. Maxim is already on his own phone calling someone else, and Dmitri is busily digging into the back of Yuuri’s phone. “I can just come back later?”

Neither Dmitri or Maxim even appear to hear him. Yuuri resigns himself to his future life as a triple agent and starts sipping the tea. He’s nearly finished when Dmitri reappears. Yuuri’s phone is nowhere to be seen.

“Eye den tiff fic cay shun,” Dmitri says carefully. “ _Da? Vy ponimayete?_ ”

It takes a moment for the strange words to click. “Oh. You want identification.” Yuuri digs in his pocket and pulls out his passport. “Um – is this okay?”

Dmitri looks at the passport quizzically, skims through it, and then hands it back with a mournful expression as he shakes his head. “ _Nyet_. Eye den...”

“Um… that _is_ my ID,” says Yuuri blankly.

There’s another flurry of Russian; Maxim appears to be scolding Dmitri, who is arguing fervently right back. Yuuri can barely pick up the words he _does_ know, and then there’s a delay while he processes them.

Nikiforov.

_Victor?_

Barcelona.

_Why are they talking about Barcelona?_

Plisetsky.

_Yurio? Wait, they know who I am? Oh my God, what pictures do I have on there? They aren’t going to grab them and sell them to the tabloids, are they?!?!_

“Um – can I have my phone back?” asks Yuuri, desperately.

Dmitri taps Yuuri’s phone. “Eye Den.” He taps Yuuri’s passport. “ _Nyet_. No good. Roosky Eye Dee. Victor Eye Dee.”

And then Dmitri clasps his hands together around Yuuri’s phone and passport and begins to _prance_ around the store, singing a tuneless sort of marching song. It might make sense to Dmitri. Maxim’s mouth drops open in shock and Yuuri is so confused he has no idea what to even _think_.

Makkachin helpfully lets out a bark just as Maxim lets loose with another stream of Russian. Maxim and Dmitri might come to blows, they’re shouting so loudly at each other – although Maxim at least drops whatever act he’s trying to pull.

“Absolutely. I completely understand,” shouts Yuuri over the argument, almost desperate – and to his great relief, Dmitri hands him back both his cell phone and his passport. “I swear I will get right on that, thank you very much.”

They’re still talking in Russian as Yuuri backs away to the door. Dmitri even opens it for him – switching to an overly-enunciated “ _Biiiiiiii-yeeeeeee_.”

The shouting continues the moment Yuuri and Makkachin are back on the sidewalk, audible even through the closed door.

Yuuri turns and walks as quickly as he can, heart pounding with disappointment. There’s a familiar weight in his gut, the one that tends to drag him down into tears after nearly every competition he’s ever been in.

_I failed_.

It seems so stupid, considering. It’s a just a SIM card – and an entire language that Yuuri doesn’t understand, as well as different rules and regulations he doesn’t know exist. He vaguely remembers getting a cell phone in Detroit, six years before: the way the cell phone store was busy with people, the dozens of phones he’d been allowed to examine only as far as their security cords would reach, the bright-white insincere smile of the employee who would disappear into the back for minutes that reached into hours, assuring him that all was well and that his new cell phone would do everything he wanted, though not as well as a more expensive model.

Surely there’d been paperwork, identifications exchanged, charges explained and understood. Yuuri can’t remember anymore, only that Phichit burst into laughter when he saw Yuuri’s phone. When it came time for an upgrade after another year, he insisted on going along to make sure Yuuri upgraded appropriately.

And that had all been in _English_ , when Yuuri had been living in the United States for three years. After three years of immersion, Yuuri dreamed in a weird mix of Japanese, English, and skating. A cell phone store posed no problem.

How the hell had he even expected to be able to do anything in Russian? Of _course_ he’s out of his league.

He still feels like a failure.

_It’s a stupid SIM card_ , he tells himself, plodding along the sidewalk with Makkachin trotting obediently next to him. He can feel the jolt of each step reverberate through his muscles. _It’s just an inconvenience, it’s not the end of the world. I’ll just figure out what kind of ID they want, provide it, and then it’ll be fine._

The idea of crawling back into bed is a nice one, though. Huddling under the covers, maybe even with Makkachin, and going back to sleep for a while appeals in a way.

Yuuri glances, curious how much further until they’re home – which is when he realizes they’re nowhere near it. Yuuri stops on the pavement, looking around as Makkachin sits patiently next to him, only vaguely leaning to the side, as if she’s at least certain where they are.

_She might be, though_ , thinks Yuuri, resigned. He loosens his hold on the leash to give her more line. The moment Yuuri begins walking, Makkachin’s up too. Half a block later, Yuuri thinks he recognizes their surroundings, somewhere on the other side of the island, at least a twenty-minute walk back home.

“Okay,” he says with a sigh. “Guess I’m getting my exercise today whether I like it or not.”

Yuuri’s exhausted, freezing, and relieved when he finally pulls up to the apartment. He manages a shaky smile at Dmitri Ivanovich at the door; he pushes the correct button on the elevator and doesn’t fall over when the elevator gives a lurch and goes up.

He’s already halfway to planning the shower he’s going to take to warm up when he opens the door…

“You’re back!” says Mila cheerfully from the kitchen. “And good timing, too, the tart’s just coming out. We’re supposed to wait for it to cool but it smells so good, I don’t think I can!”

Mila.

He takes a breath – the sugar-scent of berries and pastry and butter fill his mouth. Mila kneels at his feet to rub Makkachin’s ears, automatically going for the cloth to wipe the mud from her paws. Yuuri slowly unwinds the scarf from his neck as Mila continues talking.

“I didn’t think you’d be gone so long! You didn’t have to disappear entirely, I would have liked to chat with you while I baked.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s all right. It was just a little strange. I forgot you and Victor were back at all, honestly. Victor would always sit in the kitchen with me. I missed that.”

“Oh. I thought—”

Mila looks up at him.

“I thought you’d have wanted your privacy,” says Yuuri, embarrassed. He quickly turns to hang up his coat, just so he won’t have to see the pity on Mila’s face.

Mila takes a moment before responding. “Sometimes, it’s nice. But I always thought Victor had too much privacy, living on his own. I only came over once or twice a month, but every time, he was always so happy to see me. I think he was a little bit lonely. _Especially_ after Sochi.”

“Oh.” Yuuri winces. It’s hard not to hear the unspoken reprimand. “I… um… I don’t actually—”

“Remember, I know,” says Mila. “That’s not what I mean, though. It’s not that he was lonelier after Sochi. It’s that I don’t think he realized _how_ lonely he’d always been, until he met you.”

Yuuri isn’t sure how to respond to that. Mila gives Makkachin’s paws one last check before dropping a kiss on the dog’s head and giving her a final “you’re done!” pat.

“It’s so much nicer having someone to come home to,” says Mila as she tosses the now-muddy cloth back into the basket. “And now that you’re back, you and I are going to cut into that tart.”

Yuuri is startled. “Me?!?!”

“You!” laughs Mila, standing up. “We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?”

She looks at him so hopefully.

It reminds him of Phichit, five years before. _You’re going to show me all the best places in Detroit, aren’t you, Yuuri? You must know everything about it by now_.

Even if it’d been the other way around, in the end.

_I could ask Mila about the SIM card,_ realizes Yuuri. _And she’d probably insist we put our coats back on and we’d go back to the store and she’d produce whatever ID was necessary or she’d just smile at them and then I’d have a phone again. I wouldn’t even have to say a word._

_But I don’t want to ask someone for help. I want to do this on my own. I have to do this on my own, if it’s going to count._

Mila’s still looking at him, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah,” says Yuuri.

Mila grins. “And friends help friends cut into warm berry tarts,” she says, satisfied. “Maybe we’ll even leave a little for Victor.”

Yuuri’s smile is shaky.

_Victor, skating at the rink, alone_. Trying desperately to return to competitive life, battling time and exhaustion in order to make Yuuri’s wishes come true.

Yuuri can’t decide if the thought is inspiring, or depressing as all hell.

“Only if he’s lucky.”

*

Hours later, Victor pulls to a heaving, exhausted stop at center ice. The music for his free skate fades into the six-second silence before it starts again.

For the first time in hours, Victor doesn’t start with it. Instead, he holds his pose for a moment before releasing his arms and bending at the waist, breathing heavily.

_Clap. Clap. Clap._

The slow clap echoes in the rink. Victor’s barely even conscious of turning his head in its direction. He’s too exhausted to react when he sees the jump coach, Sasha, standing on the other side of the boards, a notebook wedged under one arm and a grim expression on his face.

The music plays seems incongruous with Sasha’s expression. In the back of his head, Victor marks time, maps out the choreography his body can no longer follow. He’s beyond the point where his limbs shake from exhaustion, beyond aching from exertion.

Instead, he’s just _tired_.

And there’s Sasha, the steady beat of his clapping shifting slightly so that it appears he’s clapping in time with the music. In a competition, when the audience claps along with the music, it’s meant to encourage. Victor doesn’t think that’s Sasha’s intended purpose now.

Or maybe it’s just subconscious, and he doesn’t mean anything by it at all.

Victor pushes himself back upright and slowly skates over to where Sasha stands. Sasha stops clapping but doesn’t turn away.

“How long have you been here?” Victor asks.

“I could ask you the same thing,” says Sasha. “I suspect it’s much longer than the ten minutes I’ve seen.”

Victor frowns. “You’ve been watching me skate?”

“You aren’t very observant when you’re lost in your own insecurities, are you?”

Victor glares at him. “I liked you, once.”

Sasha doesn’t seem concerned. “You needed me, once. Isn’t it exhausting, not to need anyone else?”

Victor’s too exhausted to deal with Sasha’s bullshit. “Is that what you think I’m doing here?”

“No, I think you’re trying to do the impossible. You’re not going to be able to do it, you know.”

“Compete?” snaps Victor.

Sasha’s eyebrows go up. “Coach.”

Victor stares at him. “And you say _I’m_ the unobservant one? What do you think I’ve been doing the last eight months, Sasha?”

“Yes, congratulations,” says Sasha dryly. “You were able to motivate an athlete who was already desperate to prove himself on the international stage. Well done, you.”

“Fuck you,” says Victor without heat. He pushes away from the boards to the door halfway down the rink. His muscles are shaking – he’s not sure if it’s exhaustion kicking in, or the discontent from Sasha’s remarks.

His hands shake as he unplugs his iPod. The abrupt silence in the rink is almost too loud.

Or maybe that’s just Sasha’s critical, no-holds-barred gaze. Sasha, who doesn’t mince words and is perfectly willing to say when there’s a pimple on the end of someone’s nose.

_I appreciated that, when I was fifteen and sixteen and seventeen_ , thinks Victor wryly. _I wonder if he’s become more like himself over the years, or if I just never noticed it before?_

“You can’t do both, Victor.” Sasha’s voice echoes in the rink. “Coaching and competing? You’ll kill yourself. You know this, surely you know this.”

Victor stiffens. “Why else would I have come back to Yubileynyy?”

Sasha’s sigh is heavy. “The same reason anyone comes to Yubileynyy. The same reason you never trained anywhere else. There’s no point, anywhere else.”

Victor knows where Sasha is looking; Victor looks too.

The windows scale up to the ceiling. Oustide, the skyline of Saint Petersburg is messy, grey with a late Sunday afternoon. There’s a breeze, given how quickly the clouds roll across the sky, and if Victor looks in exactly the right direction at the right time, he can make out the ferries going down the river.

After nearly two decades of skating next to this view, day in and day out, Victor knows every single building by name. He’s more familiar with it than any other view in his memory. Training anywhere else is… unthinkable.

Except… he can’t help but remember the quiet of Hasetsu Ice Castle in the early mornings, when the sunlight shone on the ceiling in large squares of gold, and Yuuri’s harsh breaths echoed in the rafters, along with Victor’s voice and laughter.

“What a shame that you came alone,” continues Sasha.

Victor frowns when he turns to Sasha. “What?”

“Your student, Yuuri. His jumps are better than they were a year ago, but he’s still inconsistent with the flip and the way he jumps the loop – he needs at least two more inches of height.”

Victor bristles. “Thank you for your input. I’ll keep that in mind the next time Yuuri and I work on his jumps.”

Sasha, however, didn’t stop. “He hesitates too long on his entry, if he would just—”

“ _Stop_ ,” growls Victor, advancing on Sasha. “You said it first – _my_ student. I’ll work with Yuuri. Not you.”

Sasha scoffs lightly, shaking his head but never taking his eyes off Victor. “Like I said. One skater showed up to practice. You might as well have left Yuuri in Japan. What’s the point of him being _here_ if you’re going to monopolize him?”

Victor presses his lips together. Sasha doesn’t wait for a response anyway; he’s already turning away and leaving the rink.

“See you tomorrow, Nikiforov,” he calls. “I’ll just continue ignoring your shadow, shall I?”

The sound of the doors closing after Sasha echoes. Victor stares after it, unable to move, to think, to say anything witty as a response.

_Yuuri’s not my shadow._

_Yuuri deserves to be here as much as anyone._

He’s jittery now, Sasha’s words compounding and enlarging in his head. Even after a few minutes, Victor can’t quite remember what it was that Sasha said.

_Yuuri’s not pointless. Him being here isn’t pointless. He deserves to be here with me – he’s earned that!_

Once, Victor would take his frustration and skate until he couldn’t think anymore. He’d focus on his footwork, his arm placement, the tilt of his head, the slam of his toe-pick in the ice as he lifts off.

But now there’s a weariness in his muscles, and his chest is tight with exhaustion. His feet hurt where he’s slammed them over and over on the ice. His knees are a quiet, ignorable ache that promises pure pain if he puts more pressure on them.

And he desperately has to pee.

It takes too long to remove his skates. When he pulls them off, his eyes close automatically while he lets out a hiss. His socks are soaked with sweat; he’s lucky the blisters haven’t burst. He hobbles to the med-kit located on Yakov’s table, applies the creams and antiseptics and bandages while his feet air out a little. He slides on the new soft white athletic socks, purchased in Hasetsu by Hiroko three weeks previously. Somehow, they make his feet feel better, just by being on.

_For you, Vic-chan,_ she’d said, handing him the thick white socks, freshly laundered and folded. He’d been tickled pink, touched by her thoughtfulness, and kissed her cheek while she giggled.

They’re still soft, even if they smell of Marina’s lavender soap now.

Victor never wore the flip-flops that other athletes wore after practice. _Victor Nikiforov doesn’t wear flip-flops,_ he’d laugh. But the thought of sliding his feet into his sneakers makes his chest hurt.

The thin socks he’d worn in practice are black from rubbing the inside of his skates. Victor stares at them for a long moment.

_Is this this way I want them to remember me? Old and broken, skating a young man’s program?_

He puts on his sneakers, tucking the undone laces into the sides so they don’t flop around.

_I don’t have time to create something new in time for Europeans. I have to find a way to make this program work._

He turns out the lights in the rink, makes sure the door is locked, and heads for the entrance where Pavel is waiting.

_Yuuri needs me as a coach – I need him as my inspiration. We won’t work any other way._

He throws the socks out in the trash can just inside the locker room door.

_It’s not pointless. None of this is pointless._

If Pavel notices the unlaced shoes, he doesn’t say anything. Victor waits until the last minute to do up the laces, and when he steps out of the car outside his building, his feet don’t scream in pain.

“Victor Andreyevich!” says Dmitri the doorman as he holds the door for an older couple leaving the building with their large dog. His smile is wide and friendly and Victor instantly responds with a smile of his own. Any other day, it would be a genuine smile; any other day, and Victor might bend over to rub the new dog behind its ears and compliment its owners. Now, exhausted, Victor can barely manage a smile slightly warmer than the ones he’s pasted on over the years, let alone anything more strenuous than a brief, appreciative glance at the dog.

“Dmitri Ivanovich,” says Victor. “I thought you had Sunday mornings off.”

Dmitri’s eyebrows go up. “I arrived half an hour ago, Victor Andreyevich.”

Victor blinks, and then glances at his watch, blinking just before one in the afternoon.

_Bozhe moi… how long was I skating?_

But Dmitri chuckles. “Ah, that is why you are the best. Lose yourself in your work, like I do!”

“Yes,” echoes Victor, letting Dmitri guide him inside. It’s warm in the lobby, and he tugs at his scarf as the elevator heads up to his floor.

_Yuuri… he’ll have been waiting._

_He’ll be disappointed. He’ll hide it. He always tries to hide it. He’s terrible at hiding it. I’m terrible at not seeing it._

Victor stares at the numbers ascending. He could stop the elevator, go back down. Call in an order to Duo, pick it up, and bring it home. Pretend he’d lost track of time…

_Which I did_ , Victor tells himself.

The elevator doors slide open. The hallway is quiet and exceedingly long, leading down to his doorway.

Victor takes a breath. Every step aches. His chest is tight, and he’s already forming the apology on his lips.

_I’m sorry I’m late. I lost track of time._

_I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t mean to leave you alone for so long._

_I’m sorry I’m late. I wish you’d been there with me._

_I should have taken you there with me._

It’s so quiet, in the hallway. All Victor hears is the sound of his locks as he turns his keys.

He expects the silence – judgmental, disappointed, disapproving – to continue when the door finally opens.

Instead… Yuuri’s laughter fills the room.

“Victor!” calls out Yuuri, sitting up at the table in front of his laptop. His eyes are bright, his lips are dark red, and his clothes are a little bit rumpled, as if he’s been modeling the new coat that’s now folded over the chair next to him. “ _Okaeri_!”

_Welcome home_.

Home. Victor breathes, finally smelling the scent of teriyaki, of green tea and chicken and a thousand unnamed spices he was never able to dissect. And under that, the sweet smell of berries and cream.

“Victor!” Phichit’s voice is tinny from the laptop speakers. “Yuuri says it’s below freezing out there! How could you take my best friend somewhere so _cold_? His toes are going to fall off!”

“We skate on _ice_ , Phichit!” Yuuri tells Phichit.

“That’s not the same thing!”

“This is why you failed physics.”

“No, choosing a physics class at 8am is why I failed physics. Victor, you better not turn my best friend into an icicle before Four Continents!”

The apartment shines with golden light; mid-afternoon sunbeams creep into Makkachin’s favorite afternoon sleeping spot. Victor leans against the door as he closes it, basking in the warm air and Yuuri’s equally comforting laughter.

“I’ll talk to you later, Phichit,” says Yuuri warmly, and after they say their goodbyes, he closes the laptop before coming over to lean against Victor. “You’re late.”

“I’m sorry,” says Victor – or starts to say. Yuuri kisses him before he can get so much as a syllable out.

“Missed you,” whispers Yuuri, going up on his toes, pressing his clean-and-showered body next to Victor’s tired and sweaty one. “Mila came by and made a berry tart. We left you a slice. And I made teriyaki chicken if you’re hungry.”

“A little.”

“I’m glad you’re home. Are you tired?”

“Yes,” mumbles Victor. Yuuri is warm and wonderful and _there_ , and Victor can’t remember ever being so glad to be home in his life.

“Come to bed then,” says Yuuri, and leads the way.

_Not pointless_ , thinks Victor, letting Yuuri lead him back. He’s still exhausted, still weary, still aching…

But he’s warm, and content, and Yuuri’s hand is in his as he smiles up at him.

He can do this. He can make his program work. Maybe it’s not a surprise that he loves Yuuri – but he thinks the world would be surprised at just how deeply Victor needs him.

Not pointless at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curious what Dmitri and Maxim were saying? Yeah, you and Yuuri both. [Read the cell phone store scene from Dmitri's POV here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15360357).
> 
>  
> 
> **Translations:**
> 
>  
> 
> Zakhodi (Russian) – come in  
> Moy drug (Russian) – my friend  
> Vy ponimayete (Russian) – You understand?  
> Bozhe moi (Russian) – Oh my God


	18. A Tale of Two Yuris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am being self-indulgent and switching to Yuri Plisetsky’s POV for most of this chapter, because he is an angry kitten and I love him.
> 
> Also, I have been tweaking this chapter every day for the last four days and I am tired of tweaking and I have no idea how to make it do what I want, so I'm posting it and going to bed.

** Chapter Eighteen: A Tale of Two Yuris **

Yuri Plisetsky wakes up in his dorm room on the Monday after Christmas with a groan. It’s not because of the hour – he’s used to being awake and out the door when most teenagers are hitting their alarm clocks for the first time. It’s not because it’s the official end of his week-long vacation visiting his grandfather in Moscow. It’s not even because today marks the first day of the headlong tumble to his first European Championships competing in the Senior division.

It’s because today is the first day where he’ll be training with Yuuri Katsuki and Victor Nikiforov, _on the same damn ice_ , _all damn day long_.

Yuri remembers the week he trained in Hasetsu. Yuri has _nightmares_ about that week. The idea that he’s going to be reliving that week for the rest of the season, over and over until he’s ready to give up his skates and become a monk by any means necessary – it’s abhorrent, it’s horrific, it’s a very real possibility, and it wouldn’t even work. Katsudon would probably become a monk out of guilt and Victor would follow _him_ because he’s an idiot. And half of Yuri’s Angels would become nuns on top of that.

Yuri buries his face into his pillow and lets out a long scream into the feathers. It relieves the tension a little bit, so he does it again, which doesn’t help nearly as much.

Maybe if he kicks a wall once or twice. Or maybe a bench. Or maybe if he just kicks Yuuri Katsuki and Victor Nikiforov. He imagines them bouncing down the steps outside the main entrance, literally head over heels, paper-cut-outs like South Park characters.

And then Yakov standing at the top of the steps, his hat flying off his head in gravity-defying shock as he shouts, _“Oh my god, you killed Yuuri!_ ”

Yuri giggles, throws the pillow across the room, and swings his legs out of bed.

Yeah. That image’ll work well enough.

Fuck love as inspiration or motivation. He’s gonna win a gold medal right out from under their noses out of sheer _spite_.

*

Of course Victor’s already on the ice when Yuri gets to the rink. Yuri scowls and resolves to wake up earlier the next day. He knows how to break into the rink in the middle of the night anyway. He’s broken in half an hour early numerous times just to prove a point.

“Good morning, Yurio,” says Katsudon as he laces up his skates. Yuri deepens his scowl but sits next to him anyway.

“My territory, my name,” snaps Yuri. He _knows_ his irritation with Yuuri practicing on the rink is irrational. It’s what he _wanted_ , isn’t it? Victor competing again, based in Saint Petersburg again, skating on the same ice as Yuri again. With the added bonus of Katsudon still on the Senior Circuit so that Yuri can crush _both_ their dreams when he wins gold over them. He should be _happy_ they’re there, really.

Yuri figures he’s allowed to be irrational. Being a teenager, it comes with the territory.

“Sorry,” says Katsudon sheepishly. “I could call you Yura instead?”

No way. Yuri can’t be annoyed with people who call him _Yura_ , and he can’t skate Katsudon into dust if he’s not annoyed with him. And Yuri _really_ wants to skate Katsuki Yuuri into dust. “Or you could call me _Yuri_.”

“Okay.” Katsudon finishes lacing his skates, but doesn’t make a move to get up. “How was your holiday? You spent it with your grandfather, right?”

There’s a bag of pirozhki in Yuri’s tiny refrigerator back in his dorm room, all nicely wrapped in wax paper and foil. It’s a tradition that Yuri brings home-made pirozhki for everyone’s lunch his first day back. This year, in addition to the potato and beef and vegetable pirozhki that Mila and Georgi and Victor favor, there’s a katsudon pirozhki for Yuuri.

Assuming Yuri doesn’t decide he hates them all and eats the lot, and don’t think that hasn’t occurred to Yuri at least three times in the last three minutes.

“He sent pirozhki for lunch,” says Yuri. He manages to sound both petulant and generous all at once, which is a pretty good feat since he’s bent over to tie up his skates.

“Oh! Wow,” says Katsudon, eyes going wide. “That’s really nice of him, I’ll have to thank him. If I gave you a note, could you forward it?”

Yuri yanks so hard on his lace that it snaps off in his hand.

“Argh!” he howls. Worse yet, Katsudon doesn’t even seem perturbed when Yuri stalks off to the supply cabinet to grab a new one.

It takes five minutes to lace up his skates again. At least by the time he’s done, Yuuri’s on the ice with the rest of them, arm-in-arm with Mila. Their heads are bent together and they’re gossiping like a pair of sisters from one of the stupid Chekov novels his tutor makes him read.

Unfortunately, by the time Yuri’s actually on the ice, Yuuri’s switched to skating with Victor, which is _worse_. The two of them are _holding hands_ as they skate, talking and giggling and generally being obnoxious. Yuri pretends to gag, until he realizes that the only one who can see him is Georgi, who just raises an eyebrow.

It’s not the reaction he wants, so he grits his teeth and skates faster.

*

Yuri is not one to be distracted during ice time. Usually _he’s_ the last one to realize time is up, the last to hear Yakov shouting his name when he’s working in solitude, the last to notice that there’s a line of people waiting at the boards, impatient for him to get the hell off the ice already, doesn’t he know what time it is?

But it would be impossible not to notice the number of unintentional sprints Victor does during morning skate. It’s impressive, because they just never _end_. Yuri works on his jump sequences with Sasha watching from the side, and Victor lands a triple flip and immediately sprints across the ice.

Yuri’s going over ever-more complicated step sequences under Baba Yaga’s disapproving eye, and Victor flies out of his sit-spin in order to sprint across the ice.

Yuri’s in the middle of a jump spin when he nearly clips Victor’s head as he sprints across the ice. Yuri lets out a shout, his heart pounding so hard that he’s dizzy.

_Bozhe moi, I nearly decapitated Victor Nikiforov._

Yuri’s reputation as a punk comes in handy from time to time; no one even blinks when he screams obscenities across the ice. “Oi, you _asshole_ , what the hell? You were on the other side of the rink a minute ago!”

“Yuri!” calls Victor.

It takes Yuri a minute to realize that Victor’s not calling _his_ name.

He’s calling for _Yuuri_ , who looks up from where he’s been working on his own jumps not so far away. Katsudon’s face is all fond exasperation. Yuri almost regrets not having his phone in the immediate vicinity, because he’s convinced that Phichit would _pay_ for that picture.

“I can’t believe I nearly murdered him just because he wanted a _kiss_ ,” grumbles Yuri as Mila skates up to him.

“Not exactly a kiss,” observes Mila. Sure enough, there’s no kissing. Well, not really – Victor is clearly in coach-mode as he physically moves Yuuri into whatever position he’s demanding from him, lifting his arms, turning his head, kicking his legs so that they’re slightly more spread apart. It’s not even sensual, it’s _mechanical_. They’re so close that it wouldn’t be surprising if they _did_ sneak a little lip action in. Yuri can tell that it’s the furthest thing from their minds.

“It’s kind of sweet, really,” says Mila. “They’re so cute together.”

“Ugh,” groans Yuri. He raises his voice to shout at them. “ _Get a room, idiots!_ I’m a minor! I shouldn’t be seeing this!”

Victor’s voice floats back to them, cheerful and bubbly, easily overriding Yuuri’s hasty apologies. “Hold your chin up on your quad toe loop, Yura, you’ll land it better!”

“He’s right,” says Mila. Yuri lets out a growl of frustration.

“So am I,” snaps Yuri. “Do they do this all _day_?”

“Sometimes they stop for lunch. But I can’t see what they’re doing under the table.”

Yuri howls and skates away; Mila’s laughter floats after him.

He notices it now: how Victor can’t go more than ten minutes without skating near Yuuri, saying something, making some kind of correction, touching him. There’s nothing particularly _intimate_ about any of their interactions. If Yuri didn’t know that they were a couple, the only thing he’d really be aware of was Victor’s inability to focus on his own training instead of Yuuri’s.

Looking around the rink, Yuri wonders if he’s the only one thinking it: most everyone else seems charmed, chuckling and shaking their heads every time Victor goes flying across the ice to Yuuri. As if they’re under some kind of spell that only sees the sweet honeymoon stage of new lovers.

Well. Everyone but Yakov, Sasha, and increasingly Yuuri himself, even if his reaction is more exasperation than actual annoyance. It’s possible that Baba Yaga is equally annoyed by the entire process, but Yuri thinks she was born annoyed and never figured out how to be anything else so her annoyance barely counts.

Yuri starts paying attention. Except for the twenty minutes Victor is under Yakov’s thumb – and even there, he keeps glancing worriedly over at Yuuri – there’s not a single ten-minute span where Victor has not stopped whatever he’s doing to watch Yuuri skate.

It’s _ridiculous_. It’s _stupid_ , because as far as Yuri can tell, Victor hasn’t managed to complete a full cycle of _anything_ he’s been trying to do. He might as well have not been training at all, for all that he’s meant to be preparing programs for championships at the end of the month.

Which just _pisses_. _Yuri_.  _Off_.

It’s sheer luck that he’s close enough to overhear the snippet of conversation Victor has with Yakov near the end of their one-on-one time.

“—do you mean, _not yet_?” By this point, Yakov looks like his head might blow clean off his shoulders. Yuri lingers as he drinks from his water bottle. Victor might have more experience under pressure but Yuri has excellent hearing and isn’t afraid to get an edge any way he can.

“You said the program itself wasn’t terrible, just that the music was too peppy. If I can find the _right_ music, it’ll click,” says Victor, and then he groans under his breath. “ _No_ , Yuuri, I said the _other_ way—”

“That is _not_ what I said, Vitya – _argh_ , you stupid arrogant – Yura! Back to skating!”

“Yes, coach,” says Yuri. He leaves them, deep in thought.

_Victor’s changing his free skate music? Europeans are in two weeks! What’s the idiot waiting for, trumpets and a State-sponsored parade?_

There’s no use sitting on his newly acquired information when he doesn’t have any idea of its expiration date. Victor could choose new music in the next ten minutes, for all Yuri knows. Yuri spends the last five minutes of practice working on both his step sequences and a series of increasingly delightful scathing comments that he could make. It’s somewhat fitting that the two activities are remarkably similar to each other. Both involve impeccable timing and precision in word/foot placement.

It’s an idea he should keep for next season. _Please welcome to the ice, Russia’s Yuri Plisetsky, and his program entitled, “Things I’d like to say to Victor Nikiforov about how much he annoys me.”_ Except the bastard would take the entire program as a _compliment_.

 Honestly, given how good Katsudon’s step sequences are, it’s a wonder that the guy isn’t saltier than he is. Maybe he’s worse in Japanese. Yuri idly wonders how hard it would be to tack another language onto his already heavier-than-he’d like school schedule. Yuuko would probably be happy to tutor him long-distance.

At the end of practice, Yuri skates to the boards, bright with anticipation and ready to dish out the insults he’s carefully crafted, only to find that Victor and Yuuri aren’t waiting there for him.

He turns back and sees them still on the ice, lazily skating toward him. They’re laughing about something, arms around each other’s waists. Yuuri’s head tips toward Victor, the long lines of his neck exposed, and Victor’s head is bowed, his hair falling forward like a veil.

They glide, wrapped up in each other as easily and comfortably as if they’ve done it all their lives and not just the last few months.

Victor’s laugh is bright. It bounces off the ice and reverberates from the rafters. The sun’s just rising outside the windows, and the light that pours in is slanted, gold and pink and peach. Everything is warm and soft and wonderful and loving.

It’s a picture-postcard perfect image, something that belongs encased in a finely decorated and jewel-encrusted egg, or painted exquisitely in oils and presented to royalty.

There’s a tight, hot feeling in Yuri’s chest, watching them. It ought to be painful, because it reminds him of—

Once, when he was very small, he saw his mother skating. Blue morning light filled the rink so that his mother’s dark hair was the only thing that didn’t glow. There wasn’t a sound except for her skates on the ice and Yuri’s breath catching in his small throat. Yuri can’t remember what she did; all he remembers is the smallest of details: the smile on her face, the chill on his cheeks, the swish of her blades on the ice as she spun. He never saw her look so happy, so fulfilled, anywhere else, as she did then: alone on the ice. Not when she noticed him on the side of the ice; not when she kissed him goodnight; not when she opened a brand-new bottle of wine that would gone by morning.

He could have watched her skate alone on the ice forever, if it meant seeing her happy. He has the same tug on his heart, watching Yuuri and Victor now.

All the scathing commentary dies in his throat, unsaid. Every emotion is twisted and uncomfortable and strange and he’s not sure if he’d rather scream in fury or sit there and burst into tears.

“Ah, there you are, Yura!” says Victor, lifting his head and seeing him. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting!”

Yuri can’t even speak. His mouth opens and closes reflexively, and then he’s blinking fast and trying not to fall over his skates onto the ice.

“YAKOV!” he roars, skating away as fast as he can, because like _hell_ he’s going to let either of those two assholes see him crying, and it’s not like he’s _crying_ , anyway, he couldn’t care _less_ about the two of them, he’s not _happy_ or anything. Fuck that.

“YAKOV, I’M TAKING THAT EXTRA HALF HOUR ON THE ICE TODAY.”

He doesn’t miss Yakov’s grunt – or the way it sounds pleasantly amused.

_Fuck that_ , thinks Yuri, sniffling, as he gets into position for Agape.

He’s gonna out agape those two assholes and bring home another couple of golds, or die trying.

_Because if I don’t, and Katsudon gets his gold… they might leave Saint Petersburg for good._

Yuri’s not sure what pisses him off more: the idea that Yuuri and Victor might stick around to torment him for years more – or that they might go and leave him behind.

*

Of course he shares the pirozhki. He’s a punk, not an asshole. Anyway, it’s a Christmas tradition. If Yuri hadn’t handed out the pirozhki, he’d have never been able to sleep for the guilt.

They’re all spread out in the stark common-area kitchen in the dormitories with the television playing a rerun of Shurik, which makes Victor and Georgi laugh as if they’re actually bonding. Mila has kicked up her heels and tries to catch a nap on one of the plastic green couches, and Yuri’s got his favorite chicken pirozhki, content in the knowledge that there’s three more waiting for him in the fridge.

Everything is perfect. Until he sees Yuuri sitting over by the tiny windows, looking out onto the industrial view of the seediest part of Saint Petersburg, holding his pirozhki with only one bite gone.

Yuri grunts and ignores him. It’s not like he _cares_.

_Blyad!_

“Hey, Katsudon,” says Yuri, just loud enough to catch Yuuri’s attention but not alert anyone else. Yuuri sits up a bit straighter, eyes going wide as he turns to Yuri. “I’ll eat that if you don’t.”

“Huh? Oh. No, it’s great,” says Yuuri, glancing down at the pirozhki. “Even better than last time.”

“Well, yeah,” says Yuri. “Last time I’d been trudging around in the cold for twenty minutes trying to find you. This you got piping hot out of the microwave.”

Yuuri chuckles. “Yeah, I can see how that’d be an improvement.”

“Plus we found the right ingredients,” continues Yuri. “Deda had to improvise a few things before. Tashi sauce, or something.”

Yuuri’s smile is slight. “Dashi sauce. I haven’t seen it here.”

Yuri frowns. “There’s an Asian grocery a couple metro stops away. Hasn’t Victor taken you there yet?”

“Not yet. It’s been kind of busy.” Yuuri takes a bite of the pirozhki. Yuri thinks he’s avoiding the conversation. “I’ve got some dried mix now, though, so I should be all right for a while. There’s a place around the corner from Victor’s that has everything else I’d need.”

“You mean you went shopping yourself?” asks Yuri, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice. “Was it like taking a sugared-up toddler?”

“Huh? No. Oh, you mean, Victor?”

“Of course I mean Victor, Makkachin would know to behave herself,” says Yuri impatiently.

“It was just me,” says Yuuri. “Victor was skating.”

“What, and you weren’t?”

Yuuri shrugs. “He was staying late for extra ice time. He’s usually not home until after nine.”

Yuri stares at his counterpart for a long minute, trying to find any shred of bitterness or anger or… _any_ kind of emotion, really. But Yuuri seems… complacent. Accepting.

“You mean,” says Yuri finally, “that _asshole_ dragged you to a foreign country where you don’t speak the language and then abandoned you at home while he spends every minute _skating_? And you’re making _dinner_ for him?”

Yuuri blinks. “He didn’t drag me here. And he didn’t abandon me.”

“ _Semantika_ ,” snaps Yuri, because he doesn’t know the word in English.

“Semantics?” Yuuri guesses.

“Whatever!”

“It’s only until he’s ready to compete again,” says Yuuri, and _there_ , that’s the emotion Yuri was looking for earlier. Yuuri sounds like he’s repeating a mantra.

“Whatever,” repeats Yuri, a little less forcefully. He points to the pirozhki still in Yuuri’s hands. “You should eat that.”

Yuuri smiles at him. “I will. It’s really good, Yurio. Thanks for making them.”

Yuri wants to bristle at the nickname. Instead, he scowls. “I didn’t, my grandfather—”

“ _Semantika_ ,” says Yuuri cheekily. His eyes are bright now, almost as bright as the warmth in Yuri’s chest. Yuuri takes a bite of pirozhki and talks through his mouthful. “Did I say it right?”

And fuck, if Katsudon isn’t _exactly_ as salty as his step sequences after all.

“Enjoy that pirozhki, Katsudon, because I’m going to _murder_ you at Worlds,” says Yuri. It needs to be said, and Yuri’s got to keep his reputation as the Russian Punk _somehow_.

“Okay,” says Yuuri. Yuri’s sure he’s not even _humoring_ him. “I’ll just murder you in the dance-off afterwards.”

*

Every afternoon following lunch, while the rest of the Russian team does constructive things like extra ballet practice, or swimming, or looking for music for next year’s programs (or in one case, _this_ year’s programs because he’s an impatient idiot who says things without thinking), Yuri trudges to the classrooms in the basement and sits with the other teenagers his age as they receive lessons in Russian history, literature, mathematics, physics, English. He talks to his personal tutor with the intention of going over what he doesn’t understand and receives his assignments for the following week.

It’s tedious and stupid and Yuri spends most of the time itching to get back upstairs, because honestly, it’s not like he’s going to _need_ any of this stuff. He’s going to skate until his feet fall off, and then he’ll get prosthetics and skate some more, and when he can’t skate anymore, he’s going to coach. Just like Yakov. Just like Victor. It’s a plan, and it’s not a plan that includes space for things like the correct order of all the Russian tsars since 1701.

(Calculus is another story. Yuri refuses to admit how much he enjoys solving page-long theorems.)

He leaves the classrooms in time for ballet. It’s not something he has to attend – he always misses the first five minutes, but Madame Vasileyvna likes him.

“Ah, Yura, you’re here,” sings out Yulia Vasileyvna when he enters the studio. “At the barre, please!”

Which is when Yuri sees him.

“Oh, hi, Yurio!” says Katsudon brightly. His eyes crinkle cheerfully as he waves to Yuri. “I thought you took ballet with Lilia.”

Yuri sputters. “ _What are you doing here, Katsudon?_ ”

“Ballet, of course,” says Victor – and Yuri thinks he’s going to vibrate straight through the _floor_ , because he’s never been in the same ballet class with Victor Nikiforov, not in his entire _life_. “I didn’t know you were in this class! This is amazing! It’s like old times, isn’t it?”

Yuri is tempted to turn right back around and find the classrooms again. Even Gogol is better than this.

“Barre, Yura!” sings out Yulia with an edge to her voice. Yuri shakes off his anger and stalks to the barre.

“Don’t talk to me,” he growls at them both.

“Wow,” says Victor.

“Vitya,” Yuuri chides him gently, but at least they both turn away and let Yuri stew in peace.

Yuri closes his eyes. It helps, because all he can hear is Yulia’s gentle counting in French, the piano music that marks the warm-ups she puts every class through.

“ _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit._ ”

Yuri loses himself in the movements: controlled, practiced, learned by heart since he was eight. He falls into the rhythm immediately; it only takes a few counts for him to find the razor-sharp frame of mind, the full consciousness of his body from the tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes.

Ballet had always been one of the necessary things for skating – until Lilia, and then it was just necessary. It’s why he still comes to the classes with Yulia, who’s been his instructor since he first came to Saint Petersburg. He only has classes with Lilia twice a week now.

He needs ballet every day.

“ _Très bon, Yuri_!”

Yuri’s smile is slight and his chest expands. He doesn’t need Yulia’s praise, but—

“ _Spasibo_ ,” says Yuuri next to him.

Yuri’s eyes flash open in shock.

He glances at Yulia, as if waiting for her to correct Katsudon’s mistake.

“ _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit._ ”

Yuri’s jaw works up and down, as he tries to wrestle with the urge to throw a fit, and the deeper urge to work harder.

He catches a glimpse of Victor on the other side of Yuuri’s flushed face.

Victor’s smile is strange. It’s slight, tense – almost forced.

Yuri thinks of the way that Victor dashed across the ice, every move that Yuuri made, the wide berth the other coaches gave them.

With warm-up over, the other students move away from the barre, ready to continue with other exercises. Victor follows Yuuri closely, one hand possessively on the small of Yuuri’s back as they exchange a few words.

Yuri hangs back, arms crossed, fuming, watching Yuuri move through the routine that Yulia has set for them, a dance across the floor that is meant to emulate the complicated motions across the ice.

Yuuri dances like he’s made of ribbons and water. Smooth, fluid motions, tensile strength and limitless power with every jump and spin.

Yuri’s heart beats harder just watching him.

Because Yuuri is _good_.

He might even be better than Yuri – not that he’s going to admit it. Ever. To anyone. Or even think such a stupid thought again. _God_.

Yuri can’t help it; he glances at Victor again, and the relief he feels when he sees the dopey, lovesick look on the idiot’s face is just _weird_.

Why should Yuri feel _relief_ that the idiot’s in love with Katsudon?

“Yuri,” says Yulia, “are you paying attention?”

Yuri pushes up from the wall, suddenly realizing that it’s his turn. He doesn’t say a word – he just dances.

Because Yuuri’s watching, he gives it everything he has.

The class ends with about fifteen minutes left before the start of their afternoon skate – it’s usually just enough time to refill his water bottle and change into his skates.

Now, though – he lingers a little, listening in as Yulia comes over to where Yuuri is changing out of his ballet shoes.

“Yuuri, it’s not that I don’t want you here,” Yulia says to him. “But I still don’t understand why you aren’t training with Lilia.”

“Conflict of schedules,” says Victor. “My fault, really – it’s very tight, trying to fit in coaching Yuuri and working on my own programs.”

_Selfish lout. Lilia’s probably salivating to get her hands on Katsudon. The way he dances – she’d definitely want him in her class._

“I’d like to,” says Yuuri, apologetic. “I know she’s done wonderful things for Yurio. And Minako has been a fan of Lilia Baranovskaya for years.”

“I didn’t know that,” says Victor, his eyes wide as he turns to Yuuri. “We can ask Yakov for her autograph.”

Yuri snorts. Like _that_ would go well.

“Vitya,” Yuuri chides him with a smile. “Now you’re being deliberately cruel.”

“What? How is that cruel?”

“Perhaps over the summer,” continues Yulia. “There’s a recital – Yura can tell you about it. The skaters who wish can perform short pieces to help raise money for local ballet camps. There are a few teaching positions in the camps as well – we’d love for you to join us, Yuuri—”

Yuuri’s eyes light up, but Victor’s mouth is open first.

“Maybe,” he says. “We might go back to Japan for the summer. There’s some very good ice shows there that I think Yuuri should consider. And there’s next season to worry about.”

“Yeah,” echoes Yuuri. His shoulders are still high, but his eyes are less bright. “But thank you for asking. It sounds like it would be fun.”

Yuri is in shock. He knows the programs Yulia is talking about – he’d attended the camps as a kid. It’s where Otabek first saw him – even if Yuri doesn’t remember Otabek himself. And he’s danced in the recital before, too, though he’d ditched it the previous summer in order to play hooky in Hasetsu with Yuuri and Victor.

Performing in the recital, though – that’s not just open for anyone. It’s only a few who are allowed. Who are even _asked_.

Yuuri was asked. And Yuri _knows_ Victor must realize what a big deal that is.

To then _refuse_?

_That… asshole!_

“Yura!” calls Victor, leaning over Yuuri. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” says Yuri. He’s still stuck in his own head so much he doesn’t even think to be rude.

He follows them out of the ballet studio, still lost in thought. They don’t say anything to him – even though Yuuri flashes him a friendly, if cautious, smile. Clearly they’re thinking he’s just being a moody teenager again.

Maybe he is.

But he’s sure he’s not the only one acting like it.

*

Yuri skates up to them halfway through the afternoon free skate, while Victor and Yuuri are tweaking Katsudon’s step sequence. He’s been watching them both and has come to some extremely interesting conclusions.

For one thing, Victor doesn’t seem to like it when any other coach comes anywhere _near_ Yuuri. He’s even looking at Yuri suspiciously, which is just _stupid_ , because it’s not like Yuri has anything he could teach Katsudon.

Well. Quad Salchows notwithstanding, and Yuri already taught him that.

“Whatever he’s telling you to do, ignore him,” says Yuri immediately. Because the last thing Katsuki Yuuri needs is advice from Victor Nikiforov about his _step sequences_.

Yuuri chuckles, but Victor frowns at Yuri.

_Called it_ , thinks Yuri.

“So, Katsudon,” says Yuri, “settling in? Making friends? Successfully stealing Makkachin’s affections so she loves you more than Victor?”

Victor makes a disgruntled face, but Yuuri bursts into giggles.

“I’m all right. Everyone’s been very nice.”

“Makkachin is very happy to be home,” says Victor loftily.

_Code for: nope, nope, and did that already in Hasetsu_.

“Thought so,” says Yuri, and skates away, furiously working on a plan.

*

No, seriously. He _hates_ Katsudon. Katsudon can go die in a fire, okay?

Except then Victor would be sad and Yuri had to deal with Sad Victor after last year’s GPF and _fuck_ if he wants to deal with _that_ shit again.

*

Yuuri’s used to the routine now: every evening after the afternoon skate, he and Victor say goodbye. Yuuri goes home in the back of Pavel’s car, takes Makkachin for a walk, catches up on emails and Instagram, does a few Russian lessons on his computer, and then reheats whatever Marina left for their dinner.

Victor stays at the rink and skates. Most of the time he’s home just as dinner is ready. They eat, and then they go to bed. Sometimes they even sleep right away.

It’s lonesome – but Yuuri’s used to lonesome. Besides, it’s temporary: only until Victor’s ready for the Europeans, and that’s just a few weeks away.

_Temporary,_ Yuuri tells himself as he pulls on his sneakers. _Just like the weather. Just like having longer hair. Just like six hours of sunlight a day. It’s going to get warmer, I’ll find a salon that’s open, it’s going to stay light longer, and one of these days, I won’t be going back to Victor’s apartment alone._

_Our apartment, I mean._

He’s tying his sneakers, idly thinking about what to make for dinner – whether he should heat up the food Marina’s undoubtedly left in the fridge, or brave Victor’s complicated and powerful oven to cook the chicken he’s been intending to cook for three days – when he sees a pair of high-top sneakers stop in front of him.

Yuuri frowns and looks up at Yurio, who’s glaring at him with all the intensity of a teenager who’s annoyed that anyone over the age of nineteen exists in the world.

“Hi?” says Yuuri, confused. He honestly can’t remember why Yurio would look upset with him – but then, it’s not as if Yurio ever needed a reason.

“Do you need to eat?”

“Yes?”

Yurio snorts.

“Or no?”

Yurio lets out a withering sigh and jerks his head back to the ice. “I suppose you have to tell your _keeper_ where you’re going?”

Yuuri frowns. “Victor’s not my keeper.”

Yurio mutters something in Russian and then turns to the ice and shouts. “I’m stealing your boyfriend, idiot!”

Victor doesn’t seem to be overly phased – he lands a triple flip, as cleanly and perfectly as Yuuri’s ever seen, and shouts back. “Fiancé!”

“Moron,” grumbles Yuri. He heads for the door. “Come on, we can grab a sandwich first but we’re going to be late if you don’t hurry.”

Yuuri only hesitates for a moment.

“Okay,” he says, grabs his skates, and hurries to catch up with Yuri.

Mila’s laughter follows them out of the rink. “Don’t hurt him, Yura!”

“Ugh,” groans Yurio as they turn the corner. “I hate her.”

“Um, where are we going?”

“The ballet studios, of course.”

“Okay, but _why_?”

Yurio doesn’t answer and he doesn’t stop. It’s a five-minute walk to the ballet studios, and Yuri doesn’t say a word to him the entire way. Yuuri can tell he’s still simmering with annoyance, though Yuuri’s not entirely sure why.

It’s not until they reach the ballet studio that Yuuri understands – and even then, he’s still not sure what he sees.

“Ah, Yura! You made it,” says Yulia Vasilyevna warmly. “Oh, and you brought Yuuri! Hello, Yuuri, it’s so nice of you to join us! Look, children! We have both Yuris here today!”

“YURA!” shout the children. Instantly, Yurio’s surrounded by a sea of nine- and ten-year-olds, all dressed in pink tights with black leotards, their hair tied up in short, bouncy ponytails or slightly scraggly buns. Most are girls, but there’s a few boys in the mix. The children hug Yurio and talk to him in rapid, bright-eyed Russian, bouncing from foot to foot, as if he’s possibly their favorite person in the whole world.

“ _Da, da_ ,” grumbles Yurio, but it’s obvious he’s pleased to see them, given the gentle way he nudges them back into the studio. “Back off, monsters, I need to put on my shoes.”

“What is this?” asks Yuuri.

Yurio rolls his eyes. “Dance class, idiot. Do you need new glasses?”

“No, but – it’s for _kids_.”

“Yeah, I know. I help teach it. Here.” Yurio shoves a pair of jazz shoes at him. Yuuri realizes with a start that they’re _his_. “Put these on, you don’t have anything better to do.”

“How did you get these?”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m a punk. Lockers only work if you _lock_ them. Moron.”

“All right, class,” announces Yulia, clapping her hands for attention. “Line up! _Et un et deux et trois et quatre_ ….”

The kids are good, Yuuri realizes, watching as he changes into his ballet shoes. Then again, given the nature of the location, they’d probably have to be.

“Are they all skaters?” he asks Yurio.

“Not all of them. Some of them will probably be dancers. Some of them will be gymnasts. Some of them won’t be anything at all.”

“They’re _kids_ , Yurio. They’ll be something when they grow up, even if doesn’t have anything to do with ballet,” says Yuuri.

Yurio shrugs. “If they’re not skaters, what’s the point? Are you ready? Because Peter over there could use some help.”

Sure enough, there’s a little boy who is about to fall over as he tries to keep up with the rapidly changing foot and arm positions. He’s got inky black hair and bright green eyes, and he looks like he might burst into tears on the spot.

Yuuri hops over, still trying to tie his shoelace. He speaks in English without even stopping to consider if the boy’s learned it yet. “Psst. Don’t worry about your arms yet.”

Peter answers in a frantic whisper. His English is accented and stumbling and in his childish voice, entirely adorable. “But Madame Vasileyevna say—”

Yuuri can see Yulia smile at him out of the corner of his eye. It gives him enough courage to defy the inclination to follow her instructions – at least for a little while. “I know. It’s okay. Let’s get the feet first, and then we’ll add in the arms.”

“Okay,” sniffs Peter. By the time Yuuri’s done tying his shoe, the boy has caught back up.

By the time the exercise is finished, Yuuri’s managed to get Peter to join in with both arms and feet together. It’s not _quite_ perfect in terms of form, but at least he has the correct positions at the correct times.

“Very good, children!” says Yulia Vasilyevna brightly, smiling at Yuuri. “ _Glissade_ across the floor – here we go, now!”

“Come on, Katsudon,” says Yurio, but Yuuri doesn’t need the encouragement – he’s already helping the children line up so they each have enough space to move without smacking each other in the face.

Yurio smirks, watching him. “Yeah, I thought so,” he says, and gently moves a child slightly to the left, where she won’t accidentally run into her neighbor.

*

The class lasts an hour and is immediately followed by another class of slightly older girls, who take one look at Yuuri and burst into shy giggles, unable to meet his eyes.

Yurio rolls his eyes and shoves them around like he always does. Figures that twelve-year-old girls would end up crushing on Katsuki Yuuri at first look.

_Wonder what that says about Victor?_ Yuri chokes back a laugh.

Yuri decides that bringing Katsudon was a good idea when at the end of the second class, Yuuri is staring at the door with a hopeful, anticipatory look in his eyes – clearly not looking to leave, but looking to see what class comes through next. Yuri rolls his eyes and throws Katsudon’s shoes at his head.

“Time to go, moron. Unless you want to sleep here?”

“Okay,” says Yuuri quickly, and switches his shoes.

He doesn’t speak again until they’re halfway back to the main lobby. “Thanks for bringing me, Yurio. It was fun.”

Yuri spins so fast on his heels that Yuuri almost walks past him. Yurio grabs him by the elbow and clenches his hand tight.

“Look,” says Yuri, so angry he’s barely able to _speak_. The fact that he’s angry just makes him even _angrier_. “You should have friends of your own. You should have _activities_ of your own. You’re allowed to have a life outside skating and Victor, you know. _God_. Why am I telling you this? Who’s the fucking adult here, anyway? _Moron_.”

“O-kay,” says Yuuri, a bit blindsided. “I’ve got friends. You and Mila and—”

“Friends of your _own_ , idiot,” snaps Yuri. “Friends who weren’t Victor’s first.”

Yuuri’s mouth drops open a little – and then snaps shut. He looks almost angry.

“He doesn’t get to keep you to himself,” Yuri adds. “You shouldn’t let him.”

Yuuri’s response is slow – measured, as if he’s trying to figure it out as he speaks. “That’s not what’s happening.”

Yuri can already see the walls go up: defense, denial, determination.

_Ugh_.

“Whatever you have to tell yourself,” mutters Yuri, and starts walking again. If he’s lucky, he can get out of the building before Victor shows up, because the last thing Yuri wants to do is punch the silver-haired bastard in the nose. “See you in the morning, Katsudon.”

His footsteps echo in the hallway. Yuuri’s still standing – at least, Yuri can’t hear him moving yet.

“Goodnight, Yuri.”

Yuri tenses, waiting for the final syllable.

It doesn’t come.

It’s strange, how incomplete his given name sounds coming from Katsudon.

“You can call me Yurio,” he says gruffly. “Or Yura. Whatever.”

“Yurio,” says Katsudon. Yuri can hear the smile in his voice.

Yuri’s going to pretend it doesn’t remind him of the time in Hasetsu, of steaming bowls of katsudon or hot springs under starlit skies or the way Mrs. Katsuki would give him hugs that he’d only accept when no one else was watching. It definitely doesn’t remind him of Yuuko laughing or the triplets peppering him with questions without waiting for answers or totally _destroying_ Takeshi at Mario Kart 6.

If Katsudon goes back to Japan for the summer, Yuri’s going to kill him, because he’ll have to follow him in order to drag him back, and he _really_ wants to dance in the ballet recital this year.

(Maybe he’ll wait a week before killing him or dragging him back, though. Triplets to answer and Yuuko to amuse and Takeshi to trounce and katsudon to eat, after all.)

“Monday nights, Katsudon,” says Yuri. “Show up or they’ll never find your body.”

“Sounds good to me,” says Katsudon.

Yuri believes him.


	19. A Straight Line of Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another song reference in the title, this time for Elton John’s “[Latitude](https://youtu.be/fhdTeT5ifao).” Don’t feel as though you need to listen to the song while reading the chapter, however, as they’re not lined up. I’ve always liked the song and this line in particular, and I thought it fit the overall mood of the chapter well. If you do listen, let me know if you agree!

The pace of training at the rink speeds up after Yuri’s return. Yuuri notices the singular focus from both the skaters and the coaching staff almost immediately. It reminds him of college, the way everyone on campus would shake themselves off after the holiday breaks and dive head-first into training and studying, energized from having had the time off.

The only person who doesn’t seem newly energized is Victor, but that’s mostly because he hadn’t flagged in spirit at all.

_Then again, he did have nearly a year off,_ thinks Yuuri. _Maybe he’s still running on stored-up adrenaline._

It almost makes sense, what with Europeans fast approaching, that the other coaches would ignore Yuuri. After all, the Four Continents isn’t for another two weeks, and according to Yakov, there’s plenty of work to be done.

More likely it’s because they’ve all figured out that Victor won’t let any of them near Yuuri without his being on top of them. Even Sasha keeps his distance, though Yuuri suspects he’d approach him if Victor so much as closed his eyes for a moment.

The only trainer who seems intent on flouting Victor’s unspoken edict is Anastasia, who skates by Yuuri when he’s working on his step sequences, watches with her arms crossed and a narrow focus. His heart pounds a little faster when she’s near, and he keeps his feet as light as he can, careful not to miss a single element, desperate to retain whatever high opinion she’s formed of him.

When he finishes a pass, she sniffs.

Yuuri’s not sure if it’s a good sign or not – but she never says a word to him, never makes a hand motion, never does anything but watch, watch, watch.

He feels himself getting quicker, sharper, more precise, all the same.

Lunch is one of Yuuri’s favorite moments of the day. It’s not because the food is particularly delicious, or that the windows offer Yuuri a chance to see daylight. It’s not the cheerful background noise of other people, which sounds exactly like the college cafeteria in Detroit, which had also sounded exactly like the cafeteria in high school, even though the languages spoken in all three are worlds apart, literally and figuratively.

He and Victor still sit by themselves, though Yuri pitched a fit about it the first day he was back. They continue the conversations they started in Hasetsu. Almost, anyway; instead of Yuuri teaching Victor bits and pieces of Japanese, it’s Victor who teaches Yuuri Russian. He points out various buildings on the horizon and makes up grand histories for them that Yuuri is nearly sure are invented. They giggle about the food fight Victor inadvertently started in this very cafeteria when he was fourteen, and the revolt he absolutely _did not_ lead (no matter what Yakov tells Yuuri) when the only vegetable served was carrots for the seventeenth day in a row.

They invent half a dozen background stories for the strict nutritionist, Anna Anatolyevna. Yuuri’s sure none of them are true, even if Victor seems convinced that she’s a lost member of Russian royalty.

Bit by bit, Yuuri learns more about Victor than he’d ever have read in a fan’s magazine.

Day by day, more and more people approach them to say hello, breaking down the barrier that Victor seems content to have erected around them.

It’s never more obvious than at lunchtime, with their tiny table in the corner where no one else can sit. Yuuri sees Mila and Georgi and Yurio’s faces when Victor purposefully sits them apart, and he knows their private time has an end-date. On one hand, their days are so busy, so interactive with dozens of new people whose names Yuuri struggles to remember, that he’s glad for the time when it’s just he and Victor – especially since Victor shows no sign of stopping his evening practices. Some days, their lunches are the only relaxed time they have together.

On the other… he knows that Mila and Georgi and even Yuri miss Victor, too. At some point, they’re going to want him back.

After lunch, Victor and Yuuri head in different directions: Victor to do one of the many interviews or promotional activities that he’s required to do for the FFKKR, and Yuuri to the basement of the complex, where the classrooms are located. The classroom is covered in brightly colored elementary-school style decorations, all in English: neatly printed alphabets, diagrams demonstrating grammatical concepts, pictures of objects with their names underneath.

(“About your Russian,” said Valentina Maratovna. “It’s terrible. And please don’t pretend that Victor is going to teach you anything.”)

The first three days with Magdalena were spent entirely in English while Yuuri learned how to read Cyrillic. Magdalena, who normally taught English to Russian-speaking athletes instead of the other way around, tried to figure out how to reverse the process.

Two weeks on, Yuuri’s able to sound out written words and hold extremely basic exchanges. He even knows how to fend off determined reporters – “ _Sankt-Peterburg – prekrasnyy gorod. Ya dolzhen praktikovat'. Do svidaniya!_ ” Magdalena is a good teacher – patient, cheerful, and with an excellent sense of humor. The first time Victor comes to the tiny classroom when their session runs long, Yuuri – who keeps trying to read Cyrillic in English – calls him “Biktop.” Magdalena and Yuuri both giggle so hard that they can’t breathe.

Afternoons are for conditioning or cross-training. Mila drags him to every class she can: yoga, Pilates, jazz, _belly dancing_. Yuuri’s mortified and Victor is enthralled.

Luckily, Victor is surprisingly terrible at belly dancing and refuses to go again. But Yuuri grows to like yoga, and goes back every chance he gets.

The baby ballerinas adore him. They follow him like ducklings when they see him – which is nearly every day for some of them, and not just in the evenings. It’s fast becoming unusual for Yuuri to show up in the dance studios and not immediately have a trail of small girls in leotards following him. They pepper him with questions about Japan, testing out their English and theoretically helping him with his Russian. He is befuddled by their adoration, but takes it in stride: after all, they’re tiny and he knows he’s probably the first real foreigner they’ve ever met. He remembers their names and uses them, but he doesn’t understand why Victor clutches his heart and falls against the wall when he uses them.

“Vitya? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” gasps Victor, eyes shining. “Yuuri, tell me you want a dozen.”

Yuuri’s done too many seemingly pointless drills for manic trainers to answer a question without knowing all the details. “A dozen _what_?” he asks cautiously.

“Them,” says Victor, pointing at the baby ballerinas who are giggling and squealing their way back into their classrooms, shuffling on slipper-clad feet and casting shy glances back at Yuuri. “Ones who look half like you and half like me.”

Yuuri’s eyes go wide. “Oh, no. I _knew_ you hit your head on the ice when you went down after that Salchow.”

“Yuuuuuri!”

“You _did_ study biology at _some_ point, right?”

Victor kisses him, right there in the hallway, with the last of the baby ballerinas watching. They let out a collective gasp that Victor swears afterward was deeply disappointed, but Yuuri is sure was just twelve-year-olds being horrified at such a blatant display of anything remotely sexual.

Christmas at Zhenya’s is a dim memory when the doorman Dmitri Ivanovich stops Yuuri as he’s returning home one evening.

“Yuriy Toshievich! It here!”

“What’s here?” says Yuuri. Dmitiri leads him to a locked room just off the lobby, which is stuffed to the brim with boxes all bearing the familiar wear-and-tear of international travel, as well as the customs declarations to prove it.

Dmitri adds something in Russian that’s too fast for Yuuri to catch. He pauses for a moment, and then holds up ten fingers. “Ten morning. More.”

Yuuri stares at the boxes. He remembers when the shipping company had arrived to pick them up from the onsen only a few weeks before. Boxes upon boxes, more than Victor had arrived with last year. (“Of course it’s more, Yuuri – it’s all your things, too!”) It’s not hard to translate what Dmitri’s saying, even if he only understands a word or two.

“Okay,” he says. Dmitri helps him get the boxes into the elevator and up to Victor’s floor. Yuuri piles them in a corner of the living room, stares at them with a mixed feeling of dread and excitement.

In the end, he ignores the lot to take Makkachin for walkies.

Victor’s eyes light up when he gets home. Yuuri’s already opened one box, taken one look at the contents – shirts and shoes and sweaters he’s not even sure that Victor ever _wore_ in the past year – and closed it back up again in lieu of working on his Russian homework.

“They’re bringing the rest tomorrow at ten,” says Yuuri as Victor excitedly opens the box and begins to unpack everything, leaving it in piles on the floor as he paws through the items. “Uh, Victor…?”

“My Manolos!” exclaims Victor. “I was looking for these. Yuuri, what size are your feet? You would look _stunning_ in these.”

“Your feet are two sizes bigger than mine!”

“Maybe with extra socks,” muses Victor. He shoves the shoes at Yuuri and dives for another box.

Yuuri groans. “ _Victor_. Can’t we just unpack a box or two at a time?”

“Takes too long, Yuuri! You have to unpack all at once or you’ll be living with boxes for ages,” explains Victor, happily dumping clothes on the couch. “Ah, the swimsuits! _Now_ will you go swimming in the afternoons with me?”

Yuuri looks at the pile of boxes mournfully. “And there’s more coming tomorrow…”

“Take the day off!”

Victor’s voice is muffled by shirts and cardboard; he’s bent over into the box, making more noise inside of it than should be possible. Yuuri frowns at him, not entirely sure he understood. “Take the day…?”

Victor stands up, holding a pile of paper-wrapped bundles that could be matroshka dolls, small eggplants, or nuclear weapons. “Not the _whole_ day, obviously. If you leave after morning skate, you’ll be home in plenty of time. And you can come back for afternoon skate.”

Yuuri glances at the boxes and admits he’s tempted. “You could take the day with me.”

It’s a nice thought: unpacking together, deciding where to put things, arguing about which shelf is Yuuri’s and which is Victor’s and then throwing them all in one messy pile anyway.

Victor’s quiet. “Yuuri…”

“I know,” says Yuuri quickly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Victor drops everything back in the box and pulls Yuuri close. “I wish I could. But—”

“Your quads,” Yuuri finishes for him. Victor nods and rests his forehead on Yuuri’s.

“Let’s wait until Sunday,” says Victor thickly. “I’ll give Yakov the day off, we’ll do it together then. Make a date of it.”

Yuuri laughs. But…

“No,” he says, “if I’m going to have you all Sunday to myself, I’m not going to waste it unpacking boxes. Especially if my coach is going to let me skip weight training.”

“Mmm.” Victor nuzzles against Yuuri. “You’ve been working so _hard_ , Yuuri. I think an extra rest day is an excellent idea.”

Yuuri pulls back to look at him. _It’d be more fun if you took it with me_ is right on his lips… but there’s a devilish gleam in Victor’s eyes that Yuuri recognizes, one that promises fingers and lips and tongues in all the right places. If he says the words, that look will disappear.

He should say them anyway. It’s been more days than Yuuri can easily count since Victor’s last break. The words need to be said.

Yuuri’s weak, though.

“Whatever my coach wants,” he says as his hands start pulling on Victor’s shirt. “But talk fast, because my coach needs to shut up as soon as I get these clothes off you.”

“Wow,” says Victor, delighted. He yanks his shirt over his head, which Yuuri takes as free rein to organize the contents of the boxes in any way he likes.

*

Leaving the rink when the sun is just rising feels strange. Yuuri can’t decide if it’s akin to playing hooky, or if it reminds him of the days when he’d be just leaving the rink on his way to school. There’s a phantom backpack hanging from his shoulder and the familiar snug band of his student cap on his head. He almost wants to double check that he’s remembered to pack his homework for the day – except, of course, the only homework he has is the studying for Magdalena, whom he won’t see until tomorrow.

The sky is golden in the east, heavy with dark clouds overhead. They shimmer orange and red as if on fire, and Yuuri can see snatches of an electric blue sky in places where the cloud cover is thinnest. He stands at the top of the steps, breathing in the frigid air and marveling at the beauty; a thousand sunrises over Hasetsu Bay, five years of sunrises in Detroit – he doesn’t remember any of them being this dramatic.

_No wonder Victor loves it here_ , thinks Yuuri. He hopes Victor can see the sunrise out the windows of the rink – except of course, Victor’s not in the rink. He’s in the windowless weight training room, utterly oblivious to the beauty that pulled him home.

The car pulls up on the gravel drive; Yuuri reaches to resettle his non-existent backpack before he remembers it’s not actually there.

“ _Ztras_ , Yuuri,” says Pavel cheerfully. He looks ten years younger by daylight, and inordinately more cheerful too. “ _Dom_?” 

“Da,” says Yuuri.

And then, because Yuuri has been enormously good and careful about his diet and is a grown man accustomed to having his every calorie watched like a _hawk_ by every interested party in the surrounding area, but he also spent five years in the United States waking up at ungodly hours of the morning and there are just some mornings that demand it:

“ _Nyet_ ,” says Yuuri suddenly. He leans over the seat. “Okay, don’t judge me, but… _Starbucks_.”

Pavel gives him a studying look – and then bursts into a grin.

“ _Da_ ,” he says, and the car lurches forward.

The Starbucks is across the Neva, tucked into a building that predates American chain coffee shops by at least a century, if not more. Once inside, it looks like every other Starbucks Yuuri has ever frequented in any other city in the world, except that the menu has both Cyrillic and English and is missing the horrific American and Japanese specialty concoctions that Yuuri only vaguely misses. There’s a couple of teenagers in line in front of him, and Yuuri spends the wait time sounding out the Cyrillic only to discover that it’s simply the English (Italian?) names written in the other language.

Which at least means he can order his venti soy caramel latte without making an idiot of himself, even if he does have to resort to pointing at the low-fat blueberry muffin in the pastry case. Best of all, he doesn’t even have to spell his name for the barista, which is already a step above the Starbucks in Detroit.

_Phichit would be so proud,_ thinks Yuuri as he steps aside to wait for his order. Phichit, who blindly shoved Yuuri, sometimes kicking and screaming, into every foreign McDonalds and Auntie Anne’s, who happily tried every alternate offering on the menu, who documented everything with his camera and the appropriate hashtags.

Yuuri pulls out his phone automatically, already composing the note he’ll send to Phichit. Maybe a photo of the drink they’re making for him now.

_Unable to locate network_ , says his phone screen.

Yuuri’s heart falls a little. He spends about three minutes trying fruitlessly to connect to the Starbucks’ Wi-Fi without any luck. Yuuri suppresses the sigh and pockets his cell phone.

_Maybe later,_ he thinks ruefully, glancing over at the teenagers who are just picking up their drinks. They’re talking in low voices, glancing over at Yuuri curiously. It’s not hostile, exactly – but Yuuri’s stomach still gives an uncomfortable twist that doesn’t alleviate until they’ve collected their drinks and gone.

_Maybe they’re just surprised to see a Japanese guy in a Russian Starbucks_ , Yuuri thinks. _I’m not exactly a dime a dozen here._

“Yuri,” announces the barista as his cup is deposited on the counter. Yuuri collects it and turns to go—

And sees the cell phone store on the other side of the street.

The giddiness of leaving the rink early and purchasing an illicit coffee and muffin returns full force.

He can already hear Phichit in the back of his head: _You can do it, Yuuri!_

_One less thing that Victor would have to help me with_ , Yuuri tells himself. He has coffee, a muffin, a driver who speaks Russian at his disposal, and the entire Russian team’s assurance that no deliveryman in the history of Russia has ever been on time for anything.

He can do this.

Yuuri steps out of the coffee shop with every intention of passing the car where Pavel has parked it, marching across the street, obtaining his new Russian SIM card, and proudly calling Victor on his new number to receive all due congratulations.

He takes two steps before he notices the three teenagers from inside the Starbucks, sitting at one of the outdoor tables, clutching their coffees in gloved hands. The boy’s purple hair stands out against the grey of his coat, the girls are nearly matching in blue coats. Their eyes are focused on him, even though they’re still whispering to themselves.

He takes two more steps when he realizes that they’re no longer sitting at the table. Instead, they’re following him.

Yuuri reaches the car, opens the door, and slides into the backseat without even taking a breath. He slams the lock on the car door and smiles brightly at Pavel.

“ _Dom, puzhulsta_ ,” he says, his voice bright and not shaking in the slightest.

Pavel is already folding his newspaper. “ _Da_ ,” he says.

The car smoothly glides into traffic, but when Yuuri glances nervously out the window, he doesn’t see the teenagers at all.

*

Victor is heading toward the weight room when he turns a corner and comes nose-to-nose with Anastasia.

Or rather, her nose to somewhere around his kidneys.

“Victor,” she says in a voice that she probably thinks is pleasant, because it doesn’t involve active screaming. “Rink Three is available.”

“Oh? That’s nice,” says Victor. He knows what she’s inferring, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to just give _in_. Besides, he has every intention of using the time to mope about the music library and try to find _something_ to give to Sergei.

_I have to find something by the end of this week, or I’m going to be stuck with the music Yakov hates. Or something I’ve done before, which might be worse. How can I surprise anyone with an old program they all remember?_

Anastasia continues to glare at him. She can probably read every thought he’s having, plus the future in which he spends more time moping and less time actually finding music he can use.

_Then again…_

Victor sighs and turns to the locker room. “I’ll need ten minutes to get my skates.”

“You have five,” Anastasia calls after him.

Somehow, he makes it to Rink Three in seven.

Rink Three is the oldest of the rinks. It’s slightly smaller than Olympic-size, with only three large windows providing natural light. The fluorescent lighting hums, but it can’t be heard over the sound of the generators that run the ice machines and the air conditioners. It’s dark, dreary, and depressing – which is probably why no one uses it unless at gunpoint.

It’s also empty. Victor changes into his skates and glides out onto ice. His blades scratch against the surface, echoes loud against the metallic siding, exactly as if he’s etching out an incantation to summon a beast from below.

Of course, that’s when Anastasia’s voice echoes in the room.

“Yakov hates your long program,” says Anastasia as if she’s discussing the details of last night’s television. Reminding Anastasia that they’re called _free skates_ now is a pointless exercise.

“Yakov has hated my programs for the last decade,” replies Victor. He glides to where Anastasia is standing.

Anastasia motions to the ice. “Well. Let’s see it.”

Victor gives her a long look and then skates to center ice.

He doesn’t need the music. All things considered, Victor thinks he skates the program better without it – which is a problem since the ISU requires music to be played. Instead, he takes his position and tries to put himself in the mindset for his program.

_Happiness. Joy. Yuuri’s smile when I told him I was returning to skating. The way I felt when he said he wasn’t going to quit. The touch of his hand supporting me in a dip, the way his laughter in Sochi overflowed like champagne._

He skates – but the thoughts of Yuuri fade as he goes through his choreography, still too new to be muscle memory. It’s the same every season, when he’s learning a new program: he has to concentrate on the technical before he can turn his attention to the presentation.

_Triple flip, triple toe… combination spin into an arabesque and an Ina Bauer into the first step sequence…_

The step sequence is still too slow, and Victor knows it. But it’s Anastasia, and Victor knows she’d rather see technical precision than speed this early in the game.

His steps are perfect, precise, and with a light heart, he heads into the rest of the program. Spins, jumps, another step sequence where he picks up the speed a little bit but flubs a few of the steps, and then his finish.

He’s _exhausted_. Every part of him hurts, from the bottoms of his feet to the pulsing at the back of his head, where a headache is starting to form. His back aches, his knees shake, and the even his lungs and throat sting with every breath he takes. It’s a struggle to control them in order to keep himself from hurting even worse.

He can’t even lift his head to look up at Anastasia.

“Well, that was a waste of a cigarette,” she says.

Victor grimaces. “You didn’t like it, either.”

“Did you?” challenges Anastasia.

Victor leans against the boards. “I have two weeks before Europeans. This is the only program I have.”

Anastasia sighs and stubs the last of her cigarette out on the ashtray before immediately going for a second. “You have one week to prove you can go.”

_The trial_ , Anastasia doesn’t say.

Valentina’s condition of his return. “ _I need you to prove that you are ready_ ,” she told him, and in the hazy jet-lagged aftermath of his triumphant return, Victor had agreed.

Of course, he would be happy to demonstrate to the other FFKKR officials that he’s still capable of the elements of his youth. Of course, he has programs ready to present on the international stage.

Of course, of course, of course.

In truth, he’s been deliberately ignoring the entry on his calendar. “I’ll be ready. It’ll be fine.”

Anastasia snorts. “You thought returning would be easy.”

“To competition, or to Saint Petersburg?”

“Either. Both.” Anastasia lights the second cigarette. She takes a long drag, holding it in with closed eyes before releasing it in a thin stream of smoke. “Do you know what the problem is with your generation? You don’t smoke.”

Victor blinks. “Ah… okay?”

Anastasia closes her eyes, the cigarette delicate in her fingers. “It’s the first taste in the morning, before you’re even awake. When the smoke hits the back of your throat and goes through every nerve in your body – _click click click_. That’s the reason you keep smoking, you know. Even when you know it will kill you – and of course it will kill you – that’s the reason you buy them and smoke them every single damn day. The problem is? You only get that with the first cigarette of the day. Every other cigarette, all day long, is just an attempt to chase the memory of the first.” Anastasia takes another drag and lets it out in a sigh. “Your skating? Is like all the cigarettes after the first one.”

Victor smells her cigarette smoke; it makes him want to gag, nearly as much as what Anastasia is saying. “You think I’m a fool for even trying.”

“That’s not what makes you a fool, Nikiforov,” snaps Anastasia. “Do you know what your problem is?”

“I don’t like my own program?” asks Victor icily.

“No. It’s that you _think_ your biggest problem is your program.”

“It’s not,” says Victor, not even phrasing it as a question.

“Of course it’s not. Your biggest problem is that you’re disappointed in yourself. You should try being one of us watching you, knowing it’s your own stubbornness that led you here.”

_Disappointed in…_?

Victor shakes his head. “That’s… if you’re trying to motivate me…”

“You can’t have what you left behind,” snaps Anastasia. “You might still be the five-time World Champion – but you don’t want to be. That’s why you _left_ , because you did not want to be. Falling in love with Katsuki Yuuri hasn’t made you want to be, either.”

“So I’ll never be the best cigarette again, and I can’t be the worst,” says Victor coolly. “In which case, I’m doomed to failure.”

Anastasia nods, shaking her cigarette at him. “You see! Hence your disappointment.”

“Fantastic,” said Victor. “Thank you for your input.”

“And there’s the fool,” snorts Anastasia. “Do you think any of us expect you to return to what you once were? You have what none of us ever had, Nikiforov: a real chance to reinvent yourself. You gave that chance to Katsuki. And now he’s given it back to you. Don’t waste it.”

He’d be angry, if he wasn’t so exhausted. “What do you think I’m trying to _do_ here?”

“ _Stop. Trying._ And consider the fact that if you continue to _try_ to be the man you once were, you _are going to fail_.”

_Just be yourself!_ he hears Yuuri shouting at him from the back of his mind, bundled up for a Saint Petersburg winter but standing on a beach in Hasetsu.

“I’m not a failure!” Victor snaps at Anastasia. “I _can’t_ fail.”

“You think five World Championships gives you immunity?” said Anastasia.

“Of course not!”

“Or is that you don’t want to fail in front of Katsuki?”

Victor flinches.

“Ahhhhhh,” Anastasia muses. “I thought as much. And that is love to you, dependent on your success on the ice? No wonder Yura’s Agape was so cold when he came home.”

Victor turns on the ice and wraps his arms around his chest. He closes his eyes and breathes, listening to the sound of the rink: the distant and muted sounds of music and shouting from the other side of the metal walls, the soft _thumps_ of wind or rain or cold that make the entire building shake.

“You’re a fool,” Anastasia repeats. “You cannot consider Katsuki when you are on the ice.”

“Yuuri _is_ my free skate,” says Victor shortly. “It only works because I’m skating for him.”

“Exactly why you are a fool, and exactly why you will fail. Why are you so afraid of failure, anyway? A little failure never destroyed anybody,” says Anastasia shortly. “You already know it won’t destroy him. I assure you, it wouldn’t destroy you. Besides, do you think we have the same expectations of you that we did before your little holiday in Japan?”

Victor scoffs. “Have you talked to press corps lately?”

Anastasia laughs: a short bark that actually sounds as if she’s amused. “I mean the people who know you. Those of us who forged a winner out of a flighty, ridiculous boy. The Victor Nikiforov we made you into is dead.”

_Victor Nikiforov is dead._

Victor flinches at the memory of Yura’s voice on a Barcelona morning – but Anastasia isn’t done.

“And good riddance,” she adds, spitting off to the side. “No one should live that life, without competition, without challenge. Without _struggle_. The last four years? I’ve watched you burn and burn and burn, without ever once tasting the fire that comes from the first drag, the smoke curling around your lungs and bringing your skin to life. You’ve been chasing after that feeling for so long, I think you’ve forgotten what it’s like to wake up. Well, Victor Nikiforov – here’s your chance. Your morning alarm clock is ringing, and this is your chance to have that first taste of _life_ again. Are you going to take it – or aren’t you?”

Victor can feel the cold on his fingers. For a moment, he stares at Anastasia and doesn’t doubt for a moment why Yura calls her Baba Yaga: she’s ageless, surrounded by smoke and mirrors and inspirational male choruses chanting low in the background. It’s straight out of some horrible Hollywood inspirational movie, and if Victor was the star, he’d go into a training montage that had her nodding sagely in the background while a power ballad played and sweat dripped off his nose.

He’s not in a Hollywood movie.

“Bah,” scoffs Anastasia after a moment. The spell is broken. She turns and leaves the rink, clearly disgusted with his inability to conform to genre standards. “Let me know when you have something worthwhile to show me. You have six weeks until World’s.”

“I have two weeks before Europeans.”

Anastasia snorts. “You cannot be serious?”

“You’re the one who dragged me in here in the first place,” Victor calls after her, irritated.

“And let that be a lesson to me,” Anastasia shouts back, right before the doors slam behind her.

*

Unpacking is a _bitch_.

Makkachin, however, is ecstatic. From the moment Yuuri walks into the apartment, she’s jumping and weaving around his legs, tail wagging a thousand beats a minute, so clearly confused but happy that he’s home. It’s a warm enough welcome that Yuuri is able to forget about the encounter at the Starbucks – which was _definitely_ his imagination, he tells himself firmly – and just be glad he’s taken Victor’s suggestion to play hooky for the day.

He almost changes his mind when the boxes show up ten minutes later.

“Oh my god,” says Yuuri, staring at the growing pile of boxes in the apartment lobby. He can’t even see over them anymore, and they’re _still coming_. Dmitri’s long since jammed the front door open. “Are we sure they didn’t accidentally deliver someone else’s boxes, too?”

Dmitri is enormously pleased. “Good! You stay for long time, no, Yuriy Toshievich?”

Dmitri slaps his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, giving him a shaking sort of hug. Yuuri stiffens automatically, and Dmitri, thankfully, drops his hand.

“I help,” says Dmitri, seemingly unbothered by Yuuri’s stiffness. “You go up, I send boxes. _Vy ponimayete_?” 

To Yuuri’s great surprise, he understands Dmitri’s Russian. “I do,” he says, surprised, before repeating it in careful Russian. “I understand you.”

He receives Dmitri’s bright, surprised smile in reply.

Which is then followed by Dmitri’s typical barrage of Russian. Yuuri’s sure that Dmitri doesn’t expect him to understand _everything_ now, but he still nods in what he thinks are all the appropriate places. Dmitri doesn’t seem the least bit concerned.

 It takes a full half hour to transport all the boxes up the tiny elevator, with Dmitri loading from below and Yuuri receiving from above. By the time he’s done, they fill the entire living room. Yuuri weaves carefully between the lanes he’s left for himself, wondering how the hell he’s going to manage to unpack when he doesn’t have any room to maneuver.

Yuuri spends the rest of the day steadily unpacking boxes, sorting through the clothes and finding places to put the various knick-knacks that Victor sent to Hasetsu in the first place: books, bound notebooks, pencils and pens, photographs in silver frames, shirts and pants and shoes. The matroshka dolls and the Makkachin tissue cover, the lanyards with their identification badges from the Cup of China and Rostelecom and the GPF. Yuuri even finds a few torn ticket stubs from regionals at the bottom of a box, where he’s sure they ended up only through the flurry of packing, because who would keep torn ticket stubs from a regional contest everyone knew Yuuri would win?

_Victor_ , thinks Yuuri fondly. He sets the ticket stubs with the lanyards, neatly folded on a shelf in the lounge. The rest of the items he arranges on the shelves in the outer room. It’s fun, trying to recreate the displays he remembers from Hasetsu, eclectic and interesting. After all, if Victor brought them with him, they clearly must be important enough to display.

Victor calls after lunch.

“I could come back if you need help,” he says, but the way he says it…

“I’m fine,” Yuuri assures him. “Anyway, there’s barely enough room for _me_ in here, with all these boxes. How did you fit all of this in here in the first place?”

“No idea,” says Victor breezily.

“How was weight training?”

“I didn’t go. Anastasia found me an extra half hour on the ice.”

“Ah.” Yuuri wonders if Victor’s not spending more time on the ice than he should… but he doesn’t think saying it would go over well. “Have fun?”

Yuuri can _hear_ Victor’s grin. “I think you are going to have to work _very_ hard for your gold medal in Boston!”

“I can’t wait,” says Yuuri, chuckling. _He’s happy, though. If he’s happy, extra ice time can’t be bad._

“Think you’ll be done by afternoon skate?”

“I think I’ll want a break if nothing else.”

“Great, I’ll have Pavel come for you around three.”

Irina arrives shortly afterwards to take Makkachin out for her mid-day pee. Yuuri enlists her help in taking armfuls of broken-down boxes downstairs, in exchange for a ten-minute impromptu English lesson on the difference between Detroit and Saint Petersburg winters. The rest of the afternoon moves much faster with the additional floor space, even if the shelves are slowly filling with not just Victor’s things, but Yuuri’s.

_His_ books. _His_ photographs. _His_ shoes and shirts and socks and underwear. Things he doesn’t even remember packing: the suit coat he’s worn to every dressy event the last three years, purchased in a Men’s Wearhouse outside of Detroit with Celestino and which Victor had threatened to burn along with the tie. Three boxes of extra jazz shoes in his size, purchased at a discount from Hasetsu’s local dance shop when it was going out of business (along with two extra dance belts, which is why Yuuri’s not going to think too hard about who purchased the lot). The first three seasons of Full Metal Alchemist on a bootlegged DVD, which Yuuri’s not even sure will _play_ in Victor’s player because of regional coding. (Though he imagines he could find another bootleg set easily enough.)

Most of the boxes are gone – unpacking moved quickly once Yuuri had found the boxes of books, which were easy to unload. The boxes that remain are mostly clothes that Yuuri wants to wash before putting away. There’s such a funky, stale-mildew smell to them, even after only a few weeks of transit, that he knows Victor won’t want them anywhere near his closet until they’ve been laundered.

Most of the boxes. There’s one particularly light box that Yuuri can’t help but open, even though he knows Pavel will be pulling up outside in the next ten minutes and his skin feels coated in dust and unseen grime.

Yuuri kneels down next to the box. He carefully runs the open scissors down the packing tape, not wanting to accidentally scratch the surface of what’s packed inside.

First, there’s bubble wrap – and then there’s tissue paper – and finally a smaller box that contains the kamidana in a thin foam wrapping.

Yuuri holds the kamidana in his lap, running his fingers lightly down the smooth, dark-stained wood. There’s a glossy finish to the light-weight altar that Yuuri’s not sure he likes, but here in Victor’s apartment, with the stark lines and dark wood, he’s glad Mari convinced him to choose this one instead of the more inexpensive balsa-wood kamidanas on display. He can hang this on Victor’s wall, and it will look like it belongs.

Like _he_ belongs.

There’s three doors on the kamidana to go along with the three ofuda tucked along the bottom of his sock drawer, waiting to be placed inside. There’s other boxes nestled in the bubble wrap: the candlesticks and saucers and all the other accoutrements of the Shinto shrine, lovingly packed by Hiroko weeks ago.

There’s a rectangular item wrapped in paper that Yuuri doesn’t recognize. When he picks it up, he realizes it’s a picture frame.

_Vicchan_ , he thinks, and waits for his eyes to start burning.

They don’t.

Instead, there’s noise from the door as the locks are one by one clicked and clacked open. Yuuri quickly wraps the kamidana back in its protective cushion and slides it into the box just as the door swings open.

“ _Bozhe moi_ ,” groans Marina, standing in the doorway.

Yuuri scrambles to his feet. “Ah – _ztrasvodye_ , Marina,” he says, stumbling over the Russian greeting before immediately switching back to English. “The rest of our boxes came today.”

“You home today?” says Marina, eyeing the boxes.

“ _Nyet_. I’m just heading back to the rink now,” says Yuuri.

“Mmm.” Marina peers into one of the nearby boxes. She lets out a loud, likely exaggerated cough and mutters to herself in Russian. It’s likely more for her benefit than Yuuri’s since she doesn’t seem to expect a response, but he thinks she’s as appalled by the state of the clothes as he is.

Yuuri watches as Marina starts to pull the clothes from the box, muttering under her breath. He turns and gently puts the kamidana back in its packing box, and then shoves the entire thing into the corner near the window.

_I’ll deal with it later_ , he thinks. He can shower at the complex – _maybe_. There’s no way he’s going to shower with Marina in the apartment.

By the time Yuuri has washed his hands and face, Marina has a load running in the tiny washer in Victor’s kitchen. The vacuum cleaner is out and there’s an additional six collapsed boxes for Yuuri to remove.

Marina, however, is busy rearranging the items Yuuri has placed on the previously empty shelves, shaking her head and wiping them down with a cloth as she puts them back in what was no doubt their original locations.

_Oh_ , thinks Yuuri. _Well, she’d know where Victor wants them, I guess._ He can’t help but glance at the box with the kamidana as his heart clenches. _She wouldn’t…_

“Um,” he says, stumbling over the words a little. Marina glances at him. “That box? In the corner?” He points to it, and then taps on his own chest. “ _Nyet_. Don’t unpack. I’ll do it. Later.”

Marina glances at the box and then back at Yuuri. “ _Vy_?” 

Yuuri nods emphatically, and stumbles over the Russian he knows. “Yes. I do it.”

Marina shrugs and returns to her dusting. “ _Kharasho_ ,” she says – okay – and then another short stream of Russian Yuuri doesn’t know.

Yuuri thinks she understands – the words she’s used _sound_ vaguely like something being packed or unpacked, at least. “Okay. Um. _Do svidaniya_.”

“ _Paka_ , Yuriy!” Marina calls out cheerfully.

Pavel’s waiting at the curb, per usual. Yuuri climbs into the backseat and slumps down. The sun is low in the sky; it won’t be dark for another hour, but already it feels like the day is ending, and even knowing that Victor waits at the rink, Yuuri feels more lonesome than he has in weeks.

_It’s only temporary_ , Yuuri tells himself. _I just have to stay strong a little while longer. I told him I needed him to believe in me more than I believed in myself. Now it’s my turn to believe in him._

_I can be lonely a little while longer._

*

Yuuri finds Victor in the locker room just before afternoon skate. The locker room is noisy with other athletes, slamming the metal doors and taking their showers, walking across the tiled floors in their shower shoes and laughing at jokes Yuuri doesn’t understand. Victor, however, sits alone on the bench in between their lockers, looking somewhere in the middle distance and oblivious to the noise.

Yuuri sits down next to him and takes him by the hand, weaving their fingers together.

“Hey,” he says softly, giving Victor’s hand a squeeze. “Hi. Are you okay?”

Victor’s grim expression slides into a smile as he turns to Yuuri and rests his head on Yuuri’s shoulder. “When did you get here?”

“Just now,” says Yuuri cautiously.

“Did you unpack everything?”

“Almost. Just another box or two and we’re done.”

Victor sighs, so melancholy that it makes Yuuri’s chest ache. “I haven’t been very good at making sure you’re settled, have I?”

Yuuri is even more confused than before. “That was never your responsibility. Vitya, is everything all right?”

“Oi, idiots!” shouts Yurio, leaning around the end of the row of lockers. He scowls at them as he swings a little bit from where he hangs. “Are you going to practice or aren’t you?”

“We’re coming,” says Victor, straightening. He squeezes Yuuri’s hand once before letting go and standing up. “Come on, Yuuri, we need to work on your flip if you’re going to win gold at World’s.”

“You mean the gold _I’m going to win_ over _both_ you idiots,” yells Yurio.

Victor laughs at him, reaching over to ruffle his hair. Yurio yelps and darts away.

Yuuri follows, more slowly, wondering what it was that Victor didn’t say.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Sankt-Peterburg – prekrasnyy gorod. Mne nugen uiti. Do svidaniya! (Russian) – Saint Petersburg is a lovely city. I have to go, goodbye!  
> Ztras – short for ztrasvodye, which is hello  
> Vy ponimayete? – Do you understand?  
> Bozhe moi (Russian) – Oh my God  
> Vy? (Russian) - You? (formal or plural)  
> Paka (Russian) – Goodbye (short-hand)


	20. Take a Breath and Stick That Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning that there may not be a chapter next week as I’ll be traveling. (With both kids and my mother in tow: three planes, three continents, one ocean, one sea, and a couple of deserts for good measure. FUN!) Could be worse, I could also be transporting the cat. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt and an attempted escape in Frankfurt airport, too. If I get a chance, I’ll post; if not, you’ll see another chapter in about two weeks.

** Chapter Twenty: Take a Breath and Stick that Landing **

The Sunday before Victor’s trial to keep his slot in Europeans begins much as it always does: with Yuuri waking up alone, with only the stale scent of Victor’s early-morning tea to indicate he was there at all.

Yuuri sighs, scratches Makkachin behind the ears, and gets out of bed.

He goes through motions that have quickly become rote. He dresses and makes himself a breakfast of tea and toast with sesame spread and whatever fruit he finds on the counter. He washes his dishes and starts a load of laundry because he’s stubborn and twenty-four years old and not entirely comfortable with anyone else washing his dance belts. He makes the bed because he grew up in an inn and knows better than to leave it rumpled, straightens the cushions on the couch, checks his email and Instagram and responds to whatever ridiculous message Phichit sent him over WhatsApp. It’s over an hour before finally gives in to the way Makkachin’s eyes keep wandering to her leash hanging on the wall.

“Okay,” he tells her. She bounds happily to the door, while he slowly drags behind.

He takes deep breaths as the elevator descends. Makkachin sits patiently, wagging her tail, oblivious to the way he’s working to keep himself calm.

_It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Just around the block. No one’s going to be out, it’s Sunday morning. We’ll be back before we know it._

“Yuriy Toshievich!” says Dmitri heartily as Yuuri walks through the lobby. “ _Dobroy utro_! I like the hat.”

Yuuri reaches up automatically to touch the knit cap on his head, and his fingers touch the longer, scraggly strands of his hair. “I need a haircut,” he says, only to see Dmitri’s slightly confused look. “Um. Hair. Shorter.”

“ _Barbershop_!” says Dmitri, utterly delighted. There’s so much Russian spin on the English word that it takes Yuuri a moment to realize what he’s said. Dmitri motions with his hands as he gives Yuuri the directions. “ _Da, da._ Right, straight. Big sign.” Dmitri scissors his fingers together.

“ _Spasibo_ ,” says Yuuri. He almost manages to be graceful about letting Dmitri hold the door for he and Makkachin on the way out.

Yuuri finds the barber shop easily – but the locked doors make it obvious that no haircut will be forthcoming. There’s no sign indicating hours, either. Yuuri sighs.

“Maybe I’ll just keep growing it out,” he tells Makkachin, who’s busy sniffing the wall and paying no attention to Yuuri’s hairstyle crisis.

“ _Yuriy Nikiforov!_ ”

Yuuri has no idea why he turns around – but as soon as he does, he sees the waving arms from the store across the street. The sun is just enough over the rooftops to shine directly in his eyes, and he squints in order to make out the man’s features or the name on the awning.

_Oh – it’s the cell phone store from before._

“ _Yuriy Nikiforov_!” the man shouts again. “Eye Dee?”

It takes Yuuri a minute to figure out what the man is asking him.

“Um – that’s not really my name?” says Yuuri, but the man is already hurrying across the street and has taken Yuuri by the arm. “Valentina says my identification documents are coming, but it takes a couple of weeks—”

The man – _Dmitri_ , Yuuri remembers – either doesn’t understand or doesn’t care. He pulls Yuuri into the cell phone store and sits him down on a chair, happily chatting away in Russian. Yuuri manages to pick out a word or two, but none of them make sense.

“I don’t have the ID yet,” says Yuuri, a little desperately.

“Yuriy Nikiforov!” cheers the other man from before. He thumps his chest. “Maxim!”

“Hi, Maxim,” says Yuuri. “That’s not really my name.”

“Da, da, da,” says Maxim agreeably, jabbering away in Russian as if he fully expects Yuuri to understand him. Yuuri thinks he hears Victor’s name somewhere in the mess, but he’s not sure. Maxim hands him a plate loaded with cookies.

“Oh, no, thanks, it’s okay. I’m sort of dieting,” says Yuuri.

Dmitri shouts from in the back – Yuuri can pick out the words for _idiot_ and _athlete_ and _cookies_ , and given how Maxim looked somewhat chagrined, Yuuri doesn’t think _he’s_ the one being called an idiot. There’s a crash, and then a smash, and then Dmitri appears with a tall glass nestled in a metal holder, full of dark brown tea. He shoves it at Yuuri, who grabs it out of reflex and a fear of third-degree burns.

“ _Spasibo_ ,” Yuuri manages to say as he struggles to hold the blisteringly hot metal in his hands.

Maxim is still perturbed about the cookies, given how he’s still going on about them. He and Dmitri argue for a moment before Maxim tries again, this time saying, “Ett, ett!”

Which Yuuri _thinks_ might be an order to eat them, but he’s not sure. Somehow he finds himself nibbling on one nervously as Maxim and Dmitri continue to argue over his head. They’re good, if a bit dry. He manages to sneak most of the cookie down to Makkachin, who is perfectly content to curl up at his feet and take a nap, unconcerned with angry Russians having arguments about unknown things.

Customers come in, and customers go. Every time Yuuri is about to finish his tea and make his escape, Dmitri refills it, or Maxim introduces him to another person. There are multiple attempts to include Yuuri in the conversation – which could be about anything from the weather to the current political climate to the skating prospects for next year, Yuuri has no idea.

Apart from the pseudo-kidnapping and having no idea how many cups of tea he’s drunk, not to mention being completely clueless about what’s being discussed – for all he knows, Dmitri and Maxim are considering selling him as slave labor in Siberia – Yuuri’s almost comfortable, if a little confused as to why he’s still sitting in a cell phone store with no hope of actually getting a SIM card. He’s almost disappointed when Makkachin wakes up, yawns, stretches, and starts nosing at Yuuri’s feet.

“Oh,” he says, reaching down to scratch her head. “I guess we should go home, huh, girl?”

Somehow, Maxim and Dmitri seem more willing to let Yuuri escape if Makkachin is the excuse. He manages to extract himself from the store with a minimum of fuss – or at least a minimum of fuss for Russians – and is shortly out on the street again, this time with a paper napkin full of cookies in his pocket for sharing with Victor.

“That was weird, but nice,” Yuuri tells Makkachin. “Ready to go home?”

Makkachin lets out a gentle woof, tugging on the leash. The sun’s halfway through the sky already, but there’s so much cloud cover that the day feels dreary and dark anyway. Yuuri gives a shiver and thinks longingly of the mild Hasetsu winters before he shoves the memory away.

_It’s not so bad here. And Victor will be home soon enough._

It’s a slow walk back to the apartment building, but the sun is shining and Yuuri doesn’t feel quite as off-center as he has before. The jet lag is finally wearing away; the first few days are hazy memory now, but the bonus is that everything instantly seems more familiar.

 _Coping mechanism_ , Phichit always said. Whether or not he was right, Yuuri didn’t know, but it seems to be true enough.

He stops at the corner where there’s a tiny farmer’s market set up. He likes the farmer’s market – the people there aren’t overly friendly, but they’re not overly hostile either. It reminds him a little bit of the docks at home, or at least the idea of being able to buy directly from the source. Even in Detroit, he and Phichit had sought out the farmer’s markets, and bought as many groceries there as they could use. Eggs, a few apples, some of the pastries that Victor seems to like for breakfast, because even as he complains that the nutritionist will kill him, he still eats at least two every morning they’re available.

He notices the teenagers as he’s looking at the apples. It’d be difficult _not_ to see them; they’re right beside him and making no effort to keep themselves concealed. The girls wear blue coats and giggle over the carrots; they could be any two girls in the city, entirely interchangeable.

The boy, however, in conspicuous and unforgettable with his purple-dyed hair.

Yuuri buys the apples and hurries out.

 _Coincidence_ , he tells himself.

They’re still behind him when he stops to tie his shoe halfway down the block. They stop, too.

He stops to peer into an empty storefront. They stop, too.

Yuuri’s heart starts to pound.

_What the hell?_

It’s a five-minute walk between the farmer’s market and the apartment complex.

Between the cold and the darkening sky and the people following him, it feels more like fifteen minutes.

He gets a glimpse of them when he turns the corner, and his heart nearly jumps out of his chest.

They’re so close, he can see the color of their eyes: blue and green and blue.

With a start, Yuuri recognizes them.

A set of beautiful teenagers. The same three teenagers who were at the airport, waiting just outside Customs, when he and Victor arrived.

The same three who he’d mistaken for sight-seeing tourists, watching as he and Victor had filmed around Saint Petersburg before New Year’s.

The same three outside the Starbucks, just a few days ago when the rest of their boxes arrived.

And now, following him home, hands shoved in the pockets of their oversized coats, following him in lock formation….

There’s no doubt. It’s not Victor they want.

It’s Yuuri.

He picks up his pace.

 _Please let Dmitri Ivanovich be on his smoke break_ , thinks Yuuri. _Please let him be outside to let me in!_

But the universe hates Yuuri, and so the sidewalk outside the apartment’s door is empty. Yuuri’s heart sinks, even as he fumbles in his pocket to clutch the keys to the front door in his hands.

_It’s fine, I can get the door open, I’ve done it a thousand times before…_

His hands shake so much he can barely get the key in the lock. He winces at the screech of metal on metal as the key slides, leaving a mark on the otherwise smooth surface of the door.

 _Shit shit shit_!

_They’re coming closer. They’re going to be on me in a minute. Oh God…._

A hand lands on Yuuri’s arm just as the door opens. He falls into the lobby with a shout.

“Yuriy Toshievich?” asks Dmitri Ivanovich, looking down at where Yuuri’s fallen to the floor. Makkachin wriggles next to Yuuri, clearly upset but still more than willing to lick the side of his face. “ _Kharosho?_ ”

“ _Nyet, vy idiot!_ ” snaps a woman as she steps over his legs and into the lobby. It takes Yuuri a moment to focus and realize it’s Marina. She keeps going in Russian – but her vitriol is directly entirely at Dmitri. His blood swims in his ears so loudly there’s no hope of translating any of it…

Except for two words that stand out in bold.

_Panicheskaya ataka._

Yuuri stares at Marina. If she wore a handbag, she might be using it to beat Dmitri around the ears. All Yuuri can think is, _Panic attack?_

_I’m not… but she thinks… does she….?_

Dmitri is on his knees next to Yuuri. “Who do this to you?” he demands in broken, heavily accented English that is still gentle. “Why fear?”

“Um… just…” Yuuri gulps. He tries to focus. His heart pounds so hard he’s not entirely sure he’s breathing enough to stay conscious, but he’s staring out the door to the street, and no-one’s passing by.

_They’re going to think I’m crazy._

“Who?” repeats Dmitri. “Who!”

Yuuri doesn’t think Dmitri is going to let it go, especially with Marina glaring at him. “Nothing. It was nothing. Just… I thought someone was following me.”

Dmitri instantly goes up to his feet and yanks open the door again. He says something to Marina; she snaps right back as she picks up the bag Yuuri has dropped. The bag sloshes and crackles menacingly.

 _So much for the eggs,_ thinks Yuuri miserably.

It’s not really a surprise when Marina bursts into a flurry of Russian. Yuuri thinks he even knows what she’s saying: _You bought eggs, you bought apples, you bought sweet rolls. Why did you buy these things? I buy these things!_

Maybe it’s the misplaced adrenaline from the panic attack; maybe it’s the fact that he’s cowering on the floor in Victor’s lobby.

Maybe it’s the frustration from having wasted two hours and come home without a SIM card and without a haircut and without any idea if he’s ever going to obtain them at all, ever. The only thing he’s managed to do is purchase groceries – and even those are ruined and coated in raw egg.

Yuuri feels the anger bubble in his stomach before bursting out of him.

“I made the bed too!” he shouts. “And I washed the dishes, and I took Makkachin for a walk, and I’m going to do some laundry tonight, _because that’s what I want to do, okay?!?!_ ”

The moment the words are out, the anger’s gone – all that’s left is the strange empty feeling of relief. It’s similar to how he felt taking the ice in Beijing – but now, the only audience is Marina, who slowly sinks to sit on the chair next to Yuuri, with a queer expression on her face that isn’t even _close_ to the horrified shock he’d seen on Victor’s after he shouted in the parking garage so many months before.

Marina looks – amused. Pleased, even.

 _Has she been goading me all this time? _wonders Yuuri.

The door opens again as Dmitri Ivanovich comes back inside.

“ _Podrostkov_. Children,” he scoffs, and offers Yuuri his hand.

Yuuri stares at the hand for a moment before he takes it. Dmitri hauls him to his feet in one smooth motion.

“You go, you take dog,” says Dmitri sternly as Yuuri brushes off his arms and legs. Dmitri rubs the skin behind Makkachin’s ears as she wriggles in joy. “She soft, but they not know. You take dog, they stay away, you stay safe.”

“I was fine,” says Yuuri, unable to meet Dmitri’s eyes. “I just… I got paranoid. They wouldn’t have hurt me.”

“You know that?” challenges Dmitri.

“No, but—”

“What you think, go out alone?” adds Marina. “I shop. I buy.”

Yuuri sighs. “I _know_ , but… I wanted to do it myself. I did it myself in Detroit. I should be able to do it here.”

 “You not Russian,” says Marina. “Easy target. You pay too much. I go buy, I get best price.”

“I don’t _care_ about that.” It’s not true – but Yuuri would be glad to pay a little extra, if it means being independent.

Or at least talking to someone occasionally who isn’t at the skating complex and doesn’t think he’s stupid for going outside once in a while.

“What if they hurt?” says Dmitri. “Mugged, hit by car, something worse? What Victor say? You stay here, or you take dog. You stay safe for Victor.”

Yuuri sucks in his breath. “That’s… I’m fine! No one’s going to hurt me.”

“Victor want you safe,” says Marina, crossing her arms. “No one hurt me. I scary.”

Her face doesn’t show a trace of humor. In fact, she looks about as scary as Yuuri’s ever seen.

“I just want to go out once in a while,” says Yuuri. “I can’t be cooped up here!”

Marina’s eyes narrow. “I take you.”

“She protect you,” says Dmitri, nodding.

“I don’t need protection!” exclaims Yuuri.

Marina pokes her finger hard into Yuuri’s chest. “You safe. Victor happy. Victor happy, I happy. You hurt, Victor sad. Victor sad—” Marina takes a deep breath. It catches in her throat, and Yuuri stares as he watches her face change.

As if she’s remembering Victor sad, and reliving the memory tears at her.

“ _Not again_ ,” says Marina, just as forcefully as she’s said anything in the entire conversation. “You safe. We keep you safe. We keep Victor happy.”

_Oh._

“Victor Andreyevich not happy before,” says Dmitri. “I think… I worry. You are good thing for him, Yuriy Toshievich. He need you.”

_They love him._

_They’re just trying to protect me, because they love him._

Yuuri takes a breath. “I’m not going to lock myself in a tower just to keep myself safe. I don’t want Victor hurt – but if I stay here all the time, it’s not good for either of us. I have to go out.”

Dmitri and Marina just stare at him, exactly as they’ve been doing. Exactly as if they haven’t heard or understood a word.

“ _Puzhulsto_ ,” says Yuuri, almost desperately. “Help me.”

Marina nods sharply. “You ask. We help.”

*

It’s two hours later when Yuuri finally slides his key into the lock. The shopping bag is heavy over his shoulder, and it bangs hard against his hip when he pushes open the door to the sound of Makkachin’s happy welcome home.

“ _Tadaima_ , Makkachin,” says Yuuri, scratching her behind the ears. “Told you I wouldn’t be long.”

Makkachin’s not the only one waiting – Yuuri knows that Victor’s home the moment he steps into the apartment. The lights in the kitchen are on, and there’s noise from the television in the back room – music and applause. Yuuri thinks he recognizes the music, but he can’t quite place it yet.

“Victor?” calls Yuuri.

“ _Okeiri_!” calls out Victor from the back of the apartment. “Where were you?”

“Just some shopping and trying to get a haircut,” says Yuuri as he hangs up his coat and scarf.

“It looks good,” calls Victor.

“You can’t even see it!”

 “Oh, Yuuri! Don’t you trust me?”

“Not really.”

“Yuuuuuuri!”

Yuuri grins and quickly puts the yogurt, cheese, and milk in the fridge before going to find Victor. Victor’s stretched out on the horrifying couch in the television room; he looks up and laughs when Yuuri comes in. “I thought you said you had a haircut?”

“ _Tried_ to, yes.” Yuuri slips under Victor’s stockinged feet, settling them back down on his lap. “What are you watching?”

“Georgi gave me his reference DVD for Europeans,” explains Victor. “These are the skaters to watch for. I should have watched these before, but the video department has been lax in making my copy, so Georgi said I could borrow his.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, as the skater on the screen lands a triple toe loop. He’s handsome, with dark skin and closely shaved hair, wearing a costume that resembles a disassembled suit. “This is from the NHK, isn’t it?”

“Yes – Malik Blake from Britain. Not really a threat this year. Maybe next year, if he lands his quads more consistently.”

As if to prove the point, Blake underrotates a quad Sal and ends up skidding across the ice on his ass.

“Ouch,” says Yuuri with a wince. “A whole DVD of the competition? Do you always have one of these for international events?”

“Of course. How else are we supposed to learn how to win?”

“Um, practice?”

“That too,” says Victor. He moves his feet on Yuuri’s lap so that the bottoms are flat against his thighs. “You’re cold.”

“I went shopping with Marina,” says Yuuri.

Victor perks up a little bit. “Oh? Is she here?”

“No, but she showed me where she does the grocery shopping. It’s not very far, just a couple of stops on the bus.”

Victor grins at him. “You took a bus?”

“I do know _how_. I took them all the time in Detroit.”

Victor looks delighted. “I don’t think I’ve taken a bus in _years_.”

On the screen, Blake starts in on his step sequence. Yuuri watches Victor out of the corner of his eye – Victor’s nodding his head slowly, eyes focused on the skater’s movements.

 _As if he’s comparing Blake’s steps with his own_ , thinks Yuuri.

“Did you see me on a DVD like this?” blurts out Yuuri. “Last year, before Sochi?”

“Of course,” says Victor, not looking away from the TV. “It would have been remiss of me not to pay attention to everyone who qualified for the Final.”

_So… if he saw me before the Final…_

“So… you knew me?” asks Yuuri slowly.

Victor glances at him. “Of course I knew you. Did you think I didn’t?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know.” Yuuri bites his lip.

There’s a sigh, and then a click as Victor turns off the television. He moves his feet from Yuuri’s lap and sits up on the sofa. Victor takes Yuuri’s face and turns it to him.

Yuuri can’t meet his eyes; he keeps them closed, but feels Victor lean in to him.

“Yuuri. There were only _six_ of us competing. Did you really think I wouldn’t have paid attention to you?”

“You must have thought I was a joke,” whispers Yuuri, bowing his head, but Victor lifts his chin back up again.

“No. I thought, _What a horrible unlucky thing for him._ I thought your heart would break on the spot.”

Yuuri can’t say anything.

“And then I saw you dancing at the banquet. I thought you’d shaken it off so well, and I admired you for that. I thought, _he dances so beautifully. I want to dance with him._ ”

There’s laughter in Victor’s voice – but it doesn’t sound mean. It sounds a lot like Victor’s reliving a good memory.

Yuuri opens his eyes; sure enough, Victor’s smiling at him.

“I was drunk,” Yuuri reminds him. “I don’t remember the banquet.”

Victor smiles and leans forward to kiss Yuuri so quickly that Yuuri doesn’t have time to react. It’s just the press of his lips, a flick of tongue, Victor’s hand on his cheek, holding him steady – and then Victor pulls away and leans back to grab his phone from the side table.

“I can show you.”

“Victor,” groans Yuuri. He falls back against the couch. “You already showed me. You and Chris and half a dozen other people, some I don’t even _know_ , showed me more pictures from that night than I can even remember.”

“Pictures, yes,” says Victor, sitting back up and settling next to Yuuri. “Video, though.”

“There’s _video_?!?!”

“Mila took it for me,” says Victor, almost gleeful as he opens the video

Yuuri hears the laughter first – tinny and small from the speakers on Victor’s phone. A crowd of people in a small place, all laughing and talking and clearly having the time of their lives.

Someone shouts something in Russian, and then there’s other voices, other languages. Yuuri can’t understand any of them, but the way they’re shouting – it doesn’t sound upset or angry or shocked.

They sound… _joyful_.

“ _Stop tickling me, you Russian tree!_ ”

Yuuri lifts his head up and stares at the phone. “That… that was _me_.”

“Of course it was,” says Victor cheerfully.

“I’m talking to a tree?”

Victor laughs. “Just watch, Yuuri!”

The video is about a minute long, and it’s all Yuuri needs. In the video, his shirt is untucked, his tie is flying, his jacket has clearly been abandoned.

He’s dancing. With Victor in the three-piece suit he now wears while Yuuri skates the program that’s based on the night Yuuri can’t remember.

Drunk Yuuri moves with wild abandon – with grace and energy, as if he’s trying to exorcise a demon.

Or maybe it’s joy. There’s a smile on his face that matches the light in Victor’s eyes, and under the laughter and shouting from the people who ring the dance floor – over the music that Yuuri can only in snatches – Yuuri hears laughter.

 _His_ laughter.

 _Victor’s_ laughter.

Victor rests his head next to Yuuri’s as he watches the video.

“Do you see?” whispers Victor. “And then I saw the video of you skating _Stammi_. I was so angry.”

There’s a knot in Yuuri’s throat. “I… I thought you might be.”

“Not for what you think,” says Victor. He turns and nuzzles Yuuri’s neck. “I was angry because the man who skated Stammi _should_ have been on my Grand Prix prep DVD. He _should_ have been at Worlds with me. And he _wasn’t_ , and I was angry because I knew that man existed, and I wanted to dance the night away with him again. _That’s_ why I was angry. That’s why I went to Japan. To find him.”

Yuuri’s not sure if he should be feeling the strange twist in his chest just then – it’s not that Victor’s words are romantic or particularly erotic. They’re more a backwards compliment than anything else.

But he does feel the elation anyway, so much like how he’d felt the day Victor appeared on the onsen’s doorstep. The way his entire body thrums with excitement and _joy_.

Victor covers Yuuri’s cheeks with his hands and looks right at him. “You bring so much joy into my life, Yuuri. I don’t want to go back to the life I led before you.”

“Vitya,” whispers Yuuri, right before Victor kisses him. His mouth is warm and tastes like tea and jam and toast. Yuuri can hear Makkachin’s huffing sigh, as if to say, _Oh jeez, not again!_

Yuuri can’t help the smile as he wraps his arms over Victor’s shoulders, lets Victor lay him back against the horrific couch, feels Victor’s weight press him down into the cushions.

For a brief moment, Yuuri feels out of place: dreams aren’t really meant to become reality, and _this_ particular dream was only ever that. Yuuri didn’t dream that Victor would ever love him like this, because Yuuri never thought he’d have the chance to love Victor in the same way.

“Say this is okay,” breathes Victor in between kisses.

“ _Yes_ ,” Yuuri says, wondering how Victor could ever imagine it’s _not_.

Victor’s kisses are continuous and warm. His hands move down Yuuri’s chest to his stomach, already fluttering and twisting in delight.

“You’re still cold from outside,” murmurs Victor.

“It’s cold outside,” says Yuuri, probably one of the more stupid statements he’s ever made in his life, but Victor chuckles even as the blush rises to Yuuri’s cheeks.

“You’re perfect,” breathes Victor, propping himself up on his elbow to hover over Yuuri.

Yuuri shakes his head. “I’m not.”

“You are,” insists Victor. “How did I get so lucky?”

The warm feeling in Yuuri’s stomach pushes him up, the sudden and insistent desire to be touching as much of Victor as possible, _right now_ , without delay.

 _I’m the lucky one_ , thinks Yuuri, feeling Victor’s arm slip around his back, holding him close as they shift on the sofa so that they’re both lying on their sides, Yuuri pressed to the back of the couch. Yuuri’s shirt rides up a little bit, exposing his skin to the warmth of Victor’s fingers. They tickle along his spine, brushing the top of his waistband. Yuuri’s surprised, a little, that he doesn’t feel trapped – but instead, it’s comforting, Victor’s warmth against his chest and the soft pressure of the couch against his back.

“You’ll fall,” says Yuuri, holding Victor closer.

Victor chuckles. “We’re both very skinny.”

“You know the word for skinny, but not for shoelace,” says Yuuri, and Victor giggles into Yuuri’s shoulder.

“I didn’t have five years of immersion,” says Victor. “Unless I can spend five years immersed in you?”

Yuuri makes a face. “You spend way too much time with Chris.”

“I don’t think I spend enough,” says Victor.

This time, the kisses last forever. Victor’s lips are warm and soft, and when Yuuri accidentally scrapes his teeth against them, Victor sighs with pleasure. Time stretches while kisses travel down their necks, fingers holding each other close, moving arms and heads into better or more comfortable positions.

They don’t even realize they’re rutting against each other, slowly shifting to feel their clothing rub sensitive skin. Not until Victor starts whispering brokenly in Russian, and Yuuri feels the growing tension in his gut, the twisting knot of desire that’s turning everything crystal-sweet and sharp.

“ _Ya lyu… ya lyu…_ ”

Yuuri kisses him, a whine in the back of his throat. He’s heard the words before – he doesn’t need Victor to finish them. He swallows the unspoken vowels while everything inside of him goes warm and sweet and intense, a knife-edge on ice leaving sharp lines in its wake.

The orgasm shouldn’t take him by surprise: it’s been building every moment they’ve been pressed together, warm and safe and secure.

“ _Lyublyu tebya_ ,” gasps Victor, finally finishing the phrase as his fingers press deep divots in Yuuri’s back. It’s almost painful, and maybe that’s what Yuuri needs, because the orgasm is a waterfall of pleasure and release, all the warmth under Yuuri’s skin and in the air surrounding him cascading into one massive stroke of heat.

Victor orgasms at the same time. He goes still next to Yuuri, his breath warm and wet over Yuuri’s mouth.

 _Lyublyu tebya, lyublyu tebya, lyublyu tebya_. The words hang in the air. Maybe Victor’s still saying them. Yuuri’s not sure, doesn’t care, is happy to wrap the feeling of them around him like a blanket, press his nose and mouth into the crook of Victor’s neck and breathe him in.

They settle on his skin. _He loves me_ , thinks Yuuri in a haze. _He wants me here. This is real._

_I can have this._

He never wanted it, no matter how much Mari or Yuuko teased. He never even let himself _dream_ it, because why let in that disappointment?

But it’s still inexplicably _his_. Yuuri pulls Victor tight to him, desperate to make sure Victor knows how _badly_ he wants, now that he’s allowing himself to want it at all.

“ _Love you_.” Yuuri is sure he says the words, he’s thinking them so hard. There’s a soft noise at the back of Victor’s throat: a sigh that sound disappointed until Yuuri opens his eyes and sees the strange expression on Victor’s face.

Relaxation?

Resignation?

Or maybe it’s the effort of balancing on the sofa, coupled with the discomfort of having come when fully clothed.

“Hey,” says Yuuri, cupping Victor’s cheek in his hand. “Shower?”

Victor smiles a little before opening his eyes. “Okay.” He shifts on the couch, before slipping off and catching himself on the floor. “Ah. Yuuri?”

Yuuri looks down to where Victor is staring and sees the large stain on the front of his jeans. “Oh. Um.”

Victor glances at his own jeans and bursts into a grin. “We match!”

Yuuri groans and gets off the couch carefully, because damp jeans are horrifically uncomfortable, and there’s certain parts of his anatomy which are _painfully_ sensitive. He reaches down to help Victor up to his feet. “Your fault.”

“ _My_ fault?” chirps Victor. “You’re the sexy one.”

Yuuri can feel the heat rising to his cheeks. “I think I have ample proof _right here_ that you’re sexier than I am.”

Victor’s expression is delighted. “Yuuri! We should have a _contest_.”

“No,” says Yuuri firmly. He has no idea what a contest would entail, and he’s afraid Victor might tell him.

Luckily, Victor doesn’t continue – but Yuuri’s sure he’s plotting anyway as they move into the bathroom, gingerly stripping off their come-soaked clothes on the way. Yuuri fusses with the water while Victor puts the towels in easy reaching distance and replenishes his shampoo.

The water in the shower is just beginning to reach optimal temperature when Victor wraps his arms around Yuuri from behind and kisses the back of Yuuri’s neck.

“Yuuri,” he says, his voice pitching low – not the sexy low that turns Yuuri’s insides to molten jelly, but the low that Yuuri’s already come to realize is Victor when he’s feeling uncertain. “Tell me it’s all right.”

Yuuri rests his hands on Victor’s forearms. “Huh?”

Victor rests his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri can just make out the shapes of them in the already fogged-up mirror; Victor’s back is curved as he leans into Yuuri. His head is bowed, his hair falling over his face. “This. Me… the way I…”

Yuuri turns in Victor’s arms. “The way you what?”

Victor’s head is still bowed. Yuuri can only barely see the brush of his eyelashes, the curve of his mouth. “The way I’m using you.”

Yuuri’s stomach twists unpleasantly for a moment.

_He’s… using me?_

_Not for sex!_ screams the reasonable part of Yuuri’s brain. _This isn’t a sex thing! He loves me! I know it!_

“You’re the only reason I’m skating now,” continues Victor. “No other reason. I don’t care about winning gold anymore. I just want to make you proud of me.”

Yuuri’s heart aches with love. “Victor,” he says, voice trembling. “I _am_ proud of you. You’re my inspiration, I’m always going to love your skating.”

Victor smiles. “Yuuri. Am I really your inspiration?”

Yuuri snorts. “You’re just now figuring that out?”

Victor rests his forehead against Yuuri’s. “I don’t know, Yuuri. How can I use you as _my_ inspiration, when you’re already using me as yours?”

Yuuri’s anxiety goes to sulk in a corner. No doubt to plan its next move; but Yuuri’s used to that. He can ignore it for now, because now, Victor’s arms are around him and the bathroom is filling up with steam and Yuuri’s light-headed from happiness and maybe a little bit of dehydration.

Now, Yuuri puts his hands on Victor’s cheeks and turns his face up to look him in the eyes.

“We’ll just keep on using each other,” he says, smiling and serious and sure. “And everything will work out fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Panicheskaya ataka (Russian) – Panic attack  
> Podrostkov (Russian) – Teenagers.


	21. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In news that should come as a surprise to exactly no one (least of all me), it is surprisingly difficult to get over a ten-hour time difference. Also, jet lag sucks. I apologize for not posting last week, but posting will resume weekly on Tuesday evenings (my time) from here on out.

** Chapter Twenty-one: Revelations **

Victor is in a light-hearted mood the next morning; he sings in the shower and kisses the back of Yuuri’s head as he goes to dress. He cheerfully hands Yuuri his jar of sesame spread while he munches on a cucumber. Yuuri smiles back at him, torn between relief and confusion.

“It’s going to be a good week, Yuuri!” says Victor firmly.

“Okay,” says Yuuri, wishing he could remember why Victor’s enthusiasm seems out of place. It can’t be solely because they’d made love the night before… can it?

_I’m forgetting something_ , thinks Yuuri.

Victor’s determination to be upbeat continues on the way to the rink, despite the cold and damp snap to the weather and the back-up on the bridge leading over the river.

“We’re going to be late,” says Yuuri. “Should we text Yakov?”

“He comes this way too, he’ll know already,” says Victor. “Yuuri! Look, Cao Bin’s posting New Year’s photos.”

Victor’s laughter fades as traffic begins to move, though he’s still smiling at the Twitter posts Phichit’s put up about a five-year-old cosplaying as the King from the _King and the Skater_.

Yuuri realizes when Pavel turns the car into the complex that Victor’s gone silent and tense.

“Victor?” he asks as Victor switches off his phone and slides it into his pocket.

“A good day,” repeats Victor, but the cheer is false now. Yuuri follows Victor inside, imagining he can see the tension slide over Victor’s skin, snapping into position as if an armor that Victor wears by day. “There’s a lot to do today to be ready, Yuuri! Are you ready to work hard?”

“Of course,” says Yuuri, but he’s not sure that Victor hears him. Not when he steps out of the locker room as if nothing exists except his programs and his ability to skate them.

_Oh_ , thinks Yuuri. The shift is fascinating as a study of elite athletes and their ability to focus solely on the task at hand. It’s not something he’s seen from Victor before, and he’s not entirely sure why he’s seeing it now, but if this is what Victor has been like at training for the last decade, it’s no wonder he really can tile his bathroom with gold medals.

It’s also, as it turns out, a complete turn-on.

Yuuri’s eyes might be glassed over; his ears catch Yakov’s terse mutters all the same. “Are you ready for them, Vitya?”

_The trials_ , remembers Yuuri, startled. Victor’s _yes_ in response is just as tense and direct as Yakov’s question.

“Victor seems different today,” says Mila, catching Yuuri’s arm as they lap the ice. It’s so much of a habit now that Yuuri only notices when she’s not there. “I can’t decide if he’s tense or focused.”

“The FFKK trials are tomorrow,” says Yuuri quietly.

Mila mouth forms a silent _Ohhhhh_. “But… it’s just for form’s sake, isn’t it? He’s not _worried_.”

“I’m not sure,” admits Yuuri. “His short program is beautiful. They’re going to love it.”

“What about his free?”

Victor jumps – a quad Lutz. He lands it, with a stumble. His skates clatter on the ice.

“I haven’t seen it,” says Yuuri. “He wants it to be a surprise.”

_He’s only been skating it for a few weeks at best. He won’t even show me the elements – I’m not sure what that means, though. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything._

Mila looks surprised. “I didn’t know he’d finished it! Last week, he—”

She trails off. Yuuri frowns. “What about last week?”

“Yuuri!” calls Victor. “The new Eros combination, like we talked about!”

“ _Hai_!” Yuuri calls back. He pulls away from Mila. “I’m sure it’s done. He told me it was done over the weekend.”

“Of course,” says Mila, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “He must have. It’ll be fine, I’m sure!”

Morning skate drags. Victor’s tension settles over everyone like a thick blanket. Yurio’s sit-spins travel so badly he loses his balance and goes sprawling on the ice. Mila falls out of her Biellmann spin and slices her thumb on one of her blades. Yuuri runs into the boards while trying out the more difficult step sequences in the new Yuri on Ice program.

Georgi seems to be the only one who can shake the strangeness in the air – he lands every jump, hits every mark, and his step sequences are so gorgeous that Anastasia might – _might_ – be cracking a smile.

“So,” says Yurio, skating up to them as Victor and Yuuri watch Georgi across the ice. “I hear you’re still choreographing your free skate.”

Yuuri goes still, his water bottle at his lips, and glances back and forth between Yurio and Victor.

_That’s not true. Victor, tell him that’s not true._

“Just redeveloping an element or two,” says Victor casually.

_Re-developing!?!? What does that even mean?_

Yurio turns to the ice and shouts. “Oi! Georgi! Isn’t Victor’s participation in Worlds dependent on his having a solid free skate program?”

Georgi is mid-jump – and Yurio’s shout is enough to break his concentration. He falls on his landing, scowls at all three of them, and is back on his feet before Yakov can even start shouting orders at Yurio from across the rink. All in Russian, of course, but Yuuri’s heard it so often that he could translate _reverse power pulls_ in his sleep.

“That was cruel, Yura, even for you,” says Victor quietly.

“Meh, if he can’t land the jump when I’m saying something everyone in this rink knows, how’s he going to land it with Anya snuggled up to her hockey player in the audience?”

Yakov’s voice breaks through the renewed tension again. “Yura!”

Yurio turns and starts his sprints. Yuuri glances at Victor.

“I thought your free program was finished.”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Victor. “I want you to work on your quad flip until Yakov is done with me.”

_Don’t worry... are you seriously asking me to drop this?!?!_

Yuuri’s about to protest the change in subject, but Victor has that _look_ on his face. The one that says, _Don’t push it._

_Fine. I won’t push. I wish you didn’t make me feel like I have to._

Victor keeps talking. “We can make it a competition. Who lands it first?”

“Only if the loser does the dishes,” says Yuuri.

“That’s hardly fair. You always cook so I always do the dishes.”

“Exactly,” says Yuuri, too annoyed to either play games or be cheeky. He skates over to a clear patch of ice, his muscles already shaking with adrenaline.

_Channel it into the jump. I don’t know if Victor’s lying to me or to Yurio, and it doesn’t matter. Just channel it into the jump._

He’s jumped twice and landed his quad flip zero times, when he turns just in time to see Anastasia standing five centimeters from his nose, her arms folded. She is just as frightening as she was the first time he saw her, and the way she continuously appears when Yuuri doesn’t expect her has begun to make him think that “Baba Yaga” is not so much a nickname as actual truth.

“ _Ahhhh_!” he shouts. “You… you weren’t there! How did you get there?”

“Why aren’t you an ice dancer? Why do you jump? You’re terrible at it.” Her English is remarkably polished, though there’s still a thick Russian accent. Yuuri remembers the perfect sounds of her Japanese and wonders why she doesn’t speak that instead.

“No, I’m not! I mean… there wasn’t anyone in Hasetsu for me to pair with. It was men’s singles or nothing.”

“ _Nothing_ ,” scoffs Anastasia. Yuuri can’t decide if that’s Anastasia’s way of telling him what he _should_ have chosen, or her annoyance that such a possibility was despicable in the first place. “You shouldn’t jump all at once like that. You’ll hurt yourself. Do something else for a while, then go back to it. Distance, Katsuki-san. Distance.”

“Yeah, distance,” echoes Yuuri. He glances over at Victor out of habit. He’s still working on his quad flips – and he’s even landing them now, but there’s still a thousand small things wrong with it. His hands graze the ice, both feet touch on landing, there are wobbles and wibbles and once, he almost runs into the boards when he over-rotates and tumbles out of the landing.

When Yuuri looks back, Anastasia’s gone.

Of course.

He switches to twizzles anyway.

At least it’s _rotating_ , he figures, when Victor looks over with a questioning glance. There’s already a frown-line between his eyes – undoubtedly from Yuuri’s brief, unexpected conversation with Anastasia. The only thing that stops Victor from saying anything about either Anastasia or the twizzles is Yakov calling him over for their semi-private session, while the rest of the team continues to work on their own.

Anastasia is working with Yurio.

Katya is sharing time between Mila and Georgi.

Sasha is near none of them. He leans against the boards, watching Yuuri as though he’s an interesting bug that Sasha’s trying to decide whether to squash or gently usher out of the house.

Yuuri’s palms start to sweat a little bit. His chest feels tight. He waits until Victor is deep in conversation with Yakov, moving on the ice as Yakov instructs him.

Then Yuuri skates, builds up speed… and jumps.

One-two-three-four- _crash_.

“Better,” says Sasha. Yuuri can’t see him, but he’s undoubtedly nearby, judging from how he’s not shouting or raising his voice.

_All the better to keep Victor from noticing. It’s not like Victor’s sudden surge of protectiveness is a secret._

Yuuri doesn’t bother to try to spot Sasha. “I’m flat on my back on the ice, how is that better?”

“Your take-off was perfect.”

Yuuri scoffs. “Great. That’ll win me all the medals.”

Sasha chuckles. “I see why Victor likes you. Up on your feet.”

Yuuri grunts and gets up, just as Victor skates over. “Hello!” he says to Sasha, and Yuuri thinks he recognizes the I’m-going-to-be-friendly-because-I’m-Victor-Nikiforov-and-you’re-annoying-me-and-I-am-better-than-you grin. “Is there a problem, Yuuri? How can I help?”

“Aren’t you having your session with Yakov right now?”

“Yes, but I am your coach. And if you have questions, I am here to answer them for you. Anytime. Because I am your coach, and that is my job.”

It’s not lost on anyone that Victor is looking at Sasha and not Yuuri.

“VITYA!” Yakov’s voice echoes across the rink.

“I’m fine, just working on my flips,” says Yuuri.

“Okay. Pay attention to your free leg!” Victor calls as he skates away.

“I never would have pegged Victor as being territorial,” says Sasha.

“Huh?”

“Better pay attention to your free leg,” says Sasha, amused.

Yuuri tries the jump again, dimly aware of his free leg, and much more aware of Victor watching from across the ice while Yakov yells at him.

He falls, this time on his ass. Sasha leans over the boards and says, “And how was the free leg for you?”

Yuuri groans. “This is ridiculous. I’ve stuck this jump more often in competition than I have in practice.”

“Which is much better than the reverse. Why do you think that is?”

Yuuri sighs. “If it weren’t me, I’d say landing it in competition instead of practice is a response to increased pressure. But I don’t tend to respond to pressure very well in any other situation, so I don’t think that’s it.”

“Who does respond well under pressure?”

Yuuri’s not entirely sure what Sasha’s point is, but… “Everyone else, to start.”

“Georgi?”

“I was thinking about Yurio. His free skate in Barcelona – that was definitely responding to pressure. If he hadn’t skated as well as he did after that fall—”

“You would have had gold. It was a very slim margin. But I don’t think it’s his trademark response, not yet. He’s still susceptible to succumbing to pressure, both internal and external.”

“Victor,” says Yuuri. It’s not so much an observation as a warning, though, because Victor’s skating over to them again.

“Yuuri, you’re still on the ground. Are you hurt?”

“Just thinking about my free leg,” says Yuuri.

“Up you go,” says Victor, reaching to help him up. As soon as Yuuri’s on his feet, Victor pulls him toward center ice – and away from Sasha. “Your landing looked better.”

“I fell.”

“But _before_ that.”

“VITYA!”

“Victor,” says Yuuri sternly. “You have to stop coming over here, Yakov’s going to kill you.”

“We’ll work on your flip more during our session,” says Victor.

With another glare aimed at Sasha, Victor skates back to Yakov, who looks like he’s possibly going to explode.

Yuuri waits until Victor’s distracted.

_I don’t care if it’s not what he wants me to do – I’m doing a triple just to remind myself that I don’t always fall._

He lands the triple flip perfectly.

The fact that he lands relatively close to where Sasha stands is coincidence and absolutely _not_ the result of precise planning.

“Not territorial,” says Sasha thoughtfully. “Worried.”

“He’s got reason to be. The FFKK trial’s tomorrow, and his quad flip—”

They both look across the ice, where Victor’s doing a quad toe. He lands it, and if it had been anyone who didn’t know about figure skating, it’d have looked beautiful.

But it’s Yuuri, who has spent his entire skating life watching Victor, and Sasha, who has made a career of dissecting jumps. They see the details that others would miss.

“He only needs to remember the mechanics, and apply them,” says Sasha. “He knows this. I do not think his quad flip is what worries him.”

“Then what?”

Sasha shakes his head. “How did your triple feel?”

“Good,” says Yuuri. “But I don’t have trouble with triple flips.”

“What do you think about, when you’re jumping them?”

“I… well, I flub jumps when I think too hard, so I try to clear my mind.”

“So – nothing. You think of nothing.”

“I guess?”

“Try the quad again. This time, I want you to pay attention to it. Focus on what you are doing, as you doing it. Don’t control the jump – let it happen. You’ve landed it before, you know what it should feel like. Compare what you experience in this next jump with what you remember happening the last time you landed it perfectly.”

“Think about it?” says Yuuri, confused. “But if I never land them when something’s on my mind….”

“Perhaps when something _else_ is on your mind. Try it. If I’m wrong, you’re only one jump closer to the end of the day.”

Yuuri shook his head with a smile. “All right.”

He _likes_ Sasha, that’s the thing. He smokes like a chimney and he’s not afraid to push his own agenda on any of the skaters, whether or not it’s in the skater’s best interests. Yuuri can’t help but remember what Mila had said about his actions in dark corners, which would be enough to write him off entirely, except both Sasha and Mila appear to have put it behind them.

Sasha’s _good_ at his job, Yuuri can see it already, from the way he coaches everyone else through their jumps. He’s patient and thoughtful and he seems to have a knack for figuring out how to talk a skater through what troubles them.

Victor is busy on the other side of the ice. Victor doesn’t have to know.

Yuuri tries to remain conscious of what his body is doing as he jumps. The feel of the ice under his skates. The wind in his hair. The chill on his skin. A perfect 3-turn and he’s going backwards; Yuuri can feel the way his knee leads the rest of him into the turn.

_Is that right? Now I’m overthinking it!_

He holds his right leg up and notes where it hangs in comparison to his left. His arms stretch out; he registers how high they are, his fingers curled just so…

His toe hits the ice, and he’s flying. His arms curl in, the left just a bit slower than the right. One two three four half and _down_.

_Slam_ , as he kisses the ice.

“Yuuri!” cries Victor, already on his way. He slides onto the ice next to Yuuri. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” says Yuuri as he gets up to his knees. His cheek burns where it hit the ice, and he knows it’s bad when Victor’s eyes widen. Victor reaches out to touch Yuuri’s skin and Yuuri feels the sting.

“Yuuri,” says Sasha.

Victor’s face goes stony. He turns to Sasha and unleashes a torrent of Russian, until Sasha takes a step back, hands in the air. “I just want to know if he’s all right.”

“You’ve done enough, leave my student alone,” snaps Victor.

“Victor,” says Yuuri, wincing as he touches his cheek gingerly. He doesn’t think the bone is broken and his teeth feel all right. Probably just a scrape. He’ll live. “He was just trying to help me land the quad flip.”

Victor at least has the decency to look abashed. “I…” He sighs and pulls his hand back. “I’m your coach. You shouldn’t have to go to someone else for help.”

“He offered. I didn’t seek him out.” Yuuri knows he sounds petulant and defensive – but his cheek is beginning to ache now. He hopes it won’t form a bruise – though it’s not like he’d be the first person to have bruises on their face from slamming into the boards or the ice. There’s a pair skater who’s been walking around for the last week with a black eye that would make some people think he’d been in a bar fight, when really he flubbed a release and ended up getting kneed in the eye by his partner.

“I know you didn’t ask him,” says Victor, still glaring at Sasha. “It’s not you I’m angry with.”

“Then who? Sasha’s trying to help you too.”

“Vitya! Back to work!” shouts Yakov. Victor sighs, frustrated, and runs his hands through his hair.

“Sorry, I have to—”

“I know,” says Yuuri. “You’re mine in another fifteen minutes anyway, we can talk about my flip then.”

“ _Vitya!_ ”

Victor groans and skates back to Yakov.

Yuuri sits on the ice for another moment. Mila’s working on spins near the windows. Yurio seems to be doing something needlessly complicated with his step sequence. Neither are paying him attention, in the type of way that makes Yuuri think they were paying all the attention to him just a few minutes before.

Georgi stares right at Yuuri, leaning against the boards as he drinks water from his bottle.

Yuuri holds his breath. It’s probably the first time that Georgi’s _ever_ looked at him during practice.

Georgi sets down his water bottle, skates out to the ice to build up speed – and then right at center ice, does a perfect quad toe loop. When he lands, he’s facing Yuuri, staring directly at him. It’s so perfectly planned that Yuuri wants to sink right down into the ice and never come out again.

Instead, he scrambles up to his feet and sees Sasha leaning on the boards.

“Well?” says Sasha.

It takes Yuuri a moment to figure out what Sasha’s asking. “Oh. Um.  I was relaxed. I mean – my arms weren’t as high as they should have been. And my 3-turn was flawed.”

Sasha smiles. “Yes, I thought so too. Remember that and try again.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri.

This time, the jump is better. Not perfect – he two-foots the landing and there’s a moment he’s sure he’s going to end up doing forward rolls on the ice, but he doesn’t fall, and he doesn’t touch the ice either.

“Yuuri, that was better!” calls Victor from across the ice.

“Vitya, pay attention to your own skating!” shouts Yakov.

Sasha doesn’t say anything – he just whistles as he skates to where Yurio is attempting to tie himself into knots.

It’s nearing the end of the freestyle session when Victor finally skates over to Yuuri. He’s breathing hard and dripping with sweat. Yuuri would be lying if he didn’t admit that seeing Victor like this usually makes him want to throw the man into a shower and join him there.

“How’s the flip?”

“Better. How’s your toe loop?”

“Worse. What did Sasha say?”

Yuuri tenses a little bit. “He just wanted to make a suggestion about where to hold my legs. I think it helped.”

“Hmm. I’ll be the judge of that. Let’s see.”

Yuuri’s just picking up speed when the doors to the rink open and half a dozen men and women in suits and puffy jackets walk in, led by Valentina Maratovna. Yuuri sees them out of the corner of his eye, and something about their stern expressions and the insignia he can’t quite read on their coats throws him out of his head just enough that when his toe pick hits the ice, he pops the jump.

No one says anything, though, because everyone in the rink has come grinding to a halt, staring at the group of skating officials standing on the side, deep in conversation with an exceedingly annoyed Yakov.

Yuuri glances nervously at Victor, and skates over to him without a second thought.

“Are they—?”

Victor’s throat bobs as he tries to swallow, but doesn’t take his eyes off the line of officials. “Yeah.”

_Oh shit_ , thinks Yuuri.

“I thought it was tomorrow?”

Yakov lets out a groan and makes some kind of motion that could be interpreted as _Oh well fine!_

“Well,” Victor says finally, “I guess they came early.”

“They can’t do that,” says Yuuri, and his nerves start to prickle. “They can’t… it’s _tomorrow_ , you’re supposed to show them you’re ready _tomorrow_. It’s not fair for them to come an entire day _early_ , you’re preparing for _tomorrow_ —”

“Yuuri. _Yuuri_.” Victor turns on the ice and grips Yuuri’s arms. His leans over so that his face is level with Yuuri’s. “Stop it. It’s fine. I’m not going to be any readier tomorrow than I am right now.”

“But... your quad flip—”

“It’s _fine_ ,” repeats Victor firmly. “Stop getting nervous. They’re not judging you, they’re judging me.”

_Easy for you to say_ , thinks Yuuri, and glances back at the officials. Half of them are still talking to Yakov, while the other half seem to be setting up shop, pulling out binders and papers and clipboards and pens. _If you don’t perform as well as they expect, they’re going to blame me_ _for distracting you_.

“All right!” shouts Yakov across the ice. “Since none of you are skating anyway, you can all run kilometers in the gym!”

“Great,” says Yurio, and skates as fast as he can for the benches.

“Except Yura who has anatomy homework!” continues Yakov.

“ _BLYAD._ ”

Georgi cuffs the back of Yurio’s head. “Language,” he says mildly, ignoring Yurio’s petulant glare.

“Vitya,” says Yakov.

Victor squeezes Yuuri’s hand once before letting go and skating over to his coach. Yuuri follows, but Victor and Yakov go headlong into fast-paced Russian too quick for Yuuri to follow.

“Oh, good, here’s Yuuri Katsuki now,” says Valentina Maratovna, entirely too pleased with herself. “How are you finding the facilities here? I hope you’re making good use of all we have to offer you, including our very many _specialized_ coaches.”

“Yes, thank you,” says Yuuri politely, all too aware of Victor going stiff next to him. _Shut up shut up shut up! He’s tense enough already!_

“I’m glad we ran into you, I had a question for you,” continues Valentina Maratovna. “I received confirmation of your entry in the Four Continents next month, of course, but I was surprised that you have not applied to participate in the Asian Winter Games. You are, of course, eligible – did you not plan to attend?”

_Oh. I forgot those were this year._

“Of course Yuuri doesn’t plan to participate.” Victor’s voice is direct and almost harsh. “The Asian Winter Games are more for younger skaters who need international experience before participating in the Olympics. Yuuri has been on the Senior circuit for six years now – he has plenty of international experience, and considering the timing of the event, it’s not worth the bother.”

Yuuri stares at Victor for a moment before looking over at Valentina, whose eyes are somewhat narrowed.

“International experience yes,” says Valentina pleasantly. “But I would say Katsuki is skating at a much different level than he was in previous years, wouldn’t you? I’m thinking in terms of his career. He should take every opportunity to stand on every podium that he can, while he can.”

“The Asian Games are right after Four Continents. We’d be away for nearly two weeks,” says Yuuri slowly. “That’s a really long time to be away from practice.”

_For Victor to be away from practice, I mean._

Valentina’s smile isn’t the least bit kind. “Yuuri, it’s quite admirable that you are thinking of Victor’s practice schedule in terms of his own preparation, but it should not impede your career in any way, particularly when you have our facilities and coaching staff at your disposal. Obviously we want you to succeed at every competition for which you are eligible and best suited.”

“Then it’s settled,” snaps Victor. “Yuuri is no longer suited for the Asian Winter Games. Thank you for bringing it to our attention, but we’ll give them a miss.”

One of the other officials mutters something under his breath, to the rest of their amusement. Yuuri can feel himself blushing, even though he doesn’t have a clue what’s been said.

“Fine,” says Valentina. There’s a hard edge to her voice as she begins speaking in Russian to one of the other officials. For a moment, they’re forgotten.

Victor turns to Yuuri. His face is inscrutable, but Yuuri can see the discontent in his eyes, and the way his voice sounds… it makes Yuuri want to wrap his arms around Victor’s neck and whisper soft things into his ears. “Yuuri, you should go stretch out. I’ll join you when we’re done here. I’m sure it won’t take long.”

 “Victor—”

Victor’s voice is quiet, meant for Yuuri alone. “Is this about the Asian Games? I’m sorry, I should have asked you first. You’re having a great season, Yuuri, you should take advantage of it. If you want to participate—”

“I don’t,” says Yuuri quickly. “You’re right, the timing’s terrible. I’d rather just come back home after the 4Cs.”

Victor’s smile is thin. “You need to stretch out, _solnyshko_. Go on, I’ll be fine.”

“I can stay,” offers Yuuri, wishing he was brave enough to reach out and at least _touch_ Victor with everyone present.

“I know you can, and I appreciate it,” Victor assures him. “But this will be very boring, just me doing one jump after another. And you shouldn’t let my training affect your schedule.”

Yuuri wants to protest – but there’s such an earnest expression on Victor’s face, as well as something that makes Yuuri think that any protest is going to be met with a litany of reasons why Yuuri needs to go, and very possibly Victor forcibly removing his skates and carrying him out of the rink if necessary.

“Okay,” says Yuuri finally. “But I want to hear all about it when you’re done.”

“ _Da da da_ ,” agrees Victor. “At lunch.”

And then he _does_ push Yuuri off the ice.

“You know,” says Yuuri as he puts on his guards, “I’ve figured out that the more times Russians say _da_ , the less they actually mean it.”

“Yuuri! Are you doubting my sincerity?”

“ _Da da da da da da da_!”

Someone snorts; Yuuri’s not sure who, except it’s probably not Victor. Yakov’s closest to them, but snorting is beneath him. Besides, Yakov is still in conversation with one of the officials.

Victor pushes onto a bench and hands him his sneakers. Yuuri grabs hold of Victor’s wrists.

“You’ll be fine,” he says firmly. Victor’s eyes go wide under his fringe; he looks impossibly young for a moment. “Today’s going to be a great day, right?”

Victor’s smile is thin and doesn’t reach his eyes. “Right,” he echoes, and pulls away. “Thank you, Yuuri. I’ll see you later?”

Yuuri unlaces his skates as he idly watches Victor go over to the suited officials. It’s hard not to be nervous about the change in schedule – or maybe none of them had remembered the correct day? Yuuri’s not sure, but Victor’s clearly trying to pretend a confidence that Yuuri’s not sure he feels.

_He’ll be fine_ , Yuuri reminds himself. _He’s been working so hard. He’ll be fine._

Yuuri slips off his skates while the officials start talking to Victor in Russian. Yuuri doesn’t mind it; after two weeks, he’s used to hearing the cadence of the language, congratulating himself every time he recognizes a word.

After two weeks, skating vocabulary in particular is _really_ familiar, even in Russian. Yuuri doesn’t mean to listen in – but he’s gotten into the habit of listening to every Russian conversation he can hear, just to see how much he’s able to understand.

This one is no different.

Except, of course, that it is.

“ _…skating … Nikiforov_ ,” says the official. Victor listens politely, the only nervous tick being the way his fingers tap against his thigh. “ _We … triples and quads … combinations … competition_.”

Yuuri doesn’t look at them. Surely none of them realize he can understand some of what they’re saying. _I shouldn’t be listening. If they wanted me to know, they’d be speaking in English._

“ _Da_ ,” says Victor.

“ _We understand … you have a short program …?_ ”

“ _Yes, and I have … music … music … free skate … choreography …—_ ”

Yuuri pauses, his laces half tied. No way is he going to stop eavesdropping now.

“ _… free skate …_?” The official sounds surprised.

The conversation continues – but now the Russian is beyond what Yuuri knows. The skating official’s surprise is matched by Victor’s conviction.

_What are they saying?!?! It’s about Victor’s free skate, but… what’s he telling them? That it’s finished? Or… that it’s not?_

“Yuuri!” calls Victor. Yuuri almost falls off the bench. “Your yoga class began five minutes ago!”

“Right, sorry,” says Yuuri. He scrambles to gather his things before dashing out of the rink.

He’s barely taken three steps past the double doors when he hears it.

_CLONK_ , as the heavy lock slides shut.

Yuuri sucks in his breath. _They… they locked me out!_

_And what the hell is going on with the music to Victor’s free skate? Is that why he doesn’t want me to see it? Because it’s a hot mess and he knows I won’t be able to help?_

Yuuri’s almost inclined to go right back to the door and kick through it, just to prove a point – and his heart’s pounding so hard with irrational anger and hurt that he thinks he might be able to do it.

_No. If Victor’s keeping it secret, he’s keeping it secret for a reason. Fine. That’s just… fine. I’ll do what he wants me to do, I’ll go work out and meet him for lunch and it’ll be… just… fine!_

By the time Yuuri reaches the yoga studio where the class is already stretched out, he’s vibrating with nervous energy. The studio’s dim, with soft music and the sound of a fountain in the corner, and there’s an extra mat near the door that is clearly intended for Yuuri’s use. Mila turns her head to smile warmly at him, but Yuuri isn’t going to smile back. Instead, he pulls off his shoes roughly, jams them into a cubby near the door, throws his socks in afterwards, and goes to sit on the mat.

He’s _fuming_ , and he doesn’t understand _why_.

He manages to make it through four really pissed-off poses before there’s a tap on his shoulder.

“Outside,” says Sasha grimly, with a frown on his face.

Yuuri wants to refuse. He _would_ refuse, but the tinkly music and the sound of the fountain is just making him madder, so he follows.

“So,” says Sasha, looking at Yuuri in the hallway. “You’re upset.”

“I’m upset,” repeats Yuuri.

“Great,” says Sasha. “Let’s use that and get some jumps in.”

Sasha turns and starts down the hallway. Yuuri stares after him.

“Huh?”

“Rink B is empty right now. Do you want help with your quad flip or not?”

Yuuri can’t move.

Victor would hate this.

Victor is going to look for him in the yoga studio.

Victor is a crappy coach who’s been lying to Yuuri about his free skate and _locked_ him out of a demonstration that is going to make or break the rest of his career. He’s upended Yuuri’s life so he can return to competition when he’s nearly aged out of competitive figure skating already.

_Plus_ he’s more or less abandoned Yuuri in a foreign country where he doesn’t speak the language and it’s never daylight and there’s stalkers following Yuuri whenever he tries to walk the dog.

Victor is….

“Yuuri,” says Sasha, almost impatient. “Do you want my help or not?”

Victor is Yuuri’s coach. Not Sasha.

_I can’t hurt him like that._

“I’m fine,” says Yuuri, and goes back into the yoga studio.

*

Victor was nine years old when he met Yakov Feltsman for the first time. Or rather – Victor was nine years old when he saw Yakov standing on the other side of the boards, watching him with an eagle eye as he practiced. Yakov hadn’t been holding a clipboard, but Victor knew that the man was marking things on a mental checklist, all the elements and jumps and spins that Victor could perform not-quite-flawlessly on the ice.

Victor knew he was being judged, even then. His heart started to beat a bit faster, and he held his chin up a little higher with every trick he attempted. The adrenaline was even better than a sugar-high.

_I can do this. I can show him I’m worth his attention_.

Nearly twenty years later, Victor’s used to being judged. It’s been so much a part of his life that it took him weeks to stop performing after he’d arrived in Hasetsu.

It’s been a long time, though, since he’s been so aware of the eyes watching him, the pencils ready to mark the all-too-physical checklists that the skating officials are holding on the side of the rink. His heart beats a little bit faster and he holds his chin up a little bit higher. The adrenaline doesn’t remind him of sugar-highs anymore. Now it’s the breezy confidence of dancing with Yuuri, the clear sound of his laughter floating around their heads.

_I can do this_ , he tells himself. He skates to center ice while Yakov queues up the music for his short program. Victor sets his toe in the ice, closes his eyes, and waits for the music to begin.

_Just another run-through, that’s all this is._

He falls into the program as soon as the music begins. It’s easy to forget the officials on the sidelines watching him. If his moves aren’t perfectly polished; if his jumps aren’t quite as high as they should be; if he hasn’t quite mastered his expressions… well. They know skating well enough to realize that these things come with time. They know _him_ well enough to realize that he won’t let them down.

He can feel it in his bones: this program is gold. It’s beautiful, it’s heartfelt, it’s _his_.

“Very well done, Victor,” says one of the officials. Victor recognizes her – she was in her last year of competitive figure skating when he’d first arrived to train under Yakov. For a moment, he’s intensely proud of her praise, even if all he does is give a short nod of acknowledgement. “But we were hoping to see your free skate program.”

Victor glances at Yakov. “Of course. If you’ll give me just a few minutes to catch my breath?”

“Of course,” continues the woman. “That should be enough time to set up the music.”

Victor nods as Yakov sets up the player. “As I said – it’s not quite complete. We’ve been having some trouble with the musical selection….”

The officials all glance at each other.

“Has Sergei not delivered your music?” asks a man. “If he’s proving to be unreliable—"

“No, of course not, this isn’t about Sergei,” says Victor quickly. “It’s more a matter of finding the right score for him to adjust.”

The rink is silent.

“You don’t have the music,” says the woman flatly. “Victor… how can you have anything, if you don’t have the music?”

“I have music. It’s just… not quite right.”

She glances at the other officials. They nod. The silence dissolves into the white noise: bags rustling as they put away their clipboards and notebooks, shove pencils into pockets and check their phones for messages. None of them look at Victor.

It’s only later that he thinks he should have known at that point.

“Your short program is adequate,” says Valentina. “As for your free, I’m sure you’ll have the right music in time for Worlds.”

The officials still rustle and whisper to each other, their words and gentle chuckles sounding as if they’re only reaching Victor from down a long, dusty hallway. Valentina checks her watch with a frown, and somewhere behind Victor, the staff opens the doors that allow the Zamboni to come in and clean the ice for the next flight of skaters.

Victor can feel himself expanding with every breath, every nerve on high alert.

“Europeans,” he says, automatically. “You mean in time for Europeans.”

“Oh, _Vitya_ ,” says Valentina, her voice at once patronizing and sympathetic. The sound of his name – _Vitya,_ not Victor – in her mouth grates on his skin, sends his pulse into overdrive. His teeth clench involuntarily.

“You didn’t think the Europeans were a possibility, did you?” Valentina shakes her head. “Of course we could send you, but you clearly are not ready. The risk of injury or humiliation on the international stage—”

“I’m ready,” says Victor quickly. “I will _be_ ready.”

Valentina says nothing. Victor looks over at Yakov.

“Yakov – you know I’ll be ready.”

“You don’t need Europeans in order to attend Worlds,” says Yakov. Victor’s chest is _still_ expanding, and it hurts, his heart pressing up against his lungs and his stomach and his ribcage from inside. He can barely breathe; never mind his thinning hair, it’s going to burn itself off in his sudden anger. “You have the requisite TES scores from last year, and as long as the FFKKR names you to the team, the ISU can’t object to your participation.”

“Why do you want to attend Europeans so badly, Victor?” says Valentina, as the rest of the officials begin to file out of the rink. “Katsuki won’t be there. You’re only putting unnecessary pressure on yourself by insisting on them. Not to mention the increased risk of injury considering your advanced age. I understand the loss of your Grand Prix winning streak is a blow to your ego—”

“That has nothing to do with it,” says Victor, more heated than he probably should be. Valentina raises an eyebrow, remaining infuriatingly calm and collected.

“Hmm,” says Valentina, clearly not believing him. “We’ll make the announcement about our Worlds team soon. We don’t want to leave you in the lurch, of course.”

It takes a moment for Victor to parse the statement. “But… I’m going.”

“We have two entries. It’s important to the figure skating program that whoever we send doesn’t waste them,” says Valentina coldly. She turns to Yakov with military precision. “Yakov.”

“Valentina,” says Yakov with a sharp nod.

The official file out, one by one, talking to each other in low tones. There’s a burst of laughter from someone, another person’s thank-you as the door is held open. None of them look back at Victor.

Victor waits until the slam of the door has stopped echoing before hunches over, his hands on his knees. He’s shaking – he doesn’t know _why_ , exactly. He feels hot and cold and he can’t quite breathe. His skates come in and out of focus and there’s a roaring in his ears that isn’t the Zamboni.

“Vitya. _Vitya_. Breathe. You’re all right. Just breathe through it.”

_Oh. Am I having a panic attack?_

_Is this what they feel like?_

_Is this how Yuuri felt, before the Cup of China? Like he’d already shattered but was still holding together by a single shard, and all it would take to fall apart was for someone to notice?_

“You knew you were never going to go,” Yakov is saying. “Vitya—”

Yakov’s called him Vitya for more years than Victor can count – but all he hears now is the way it sounded in Valentina’s mouth. Condescending, dismissive, patronizing.

“Don’t call me that,” wheezes Victor. He squeezes his eyes shut, dizzy.

He remembers Yuuri’s confession on the beach, so many months ago. How he’d rejected the perceived comfort from the girl. At the time, he hadn’t quite understood what Yuuri had meant by it, even if he understood it was important to Yuuri.

Now he thinks he knows why. The easy familiarity of his diminutive is too much to bear.

“Come sit down,” says Yakov kindly. More kindly than Victor’s ever heard him speak in his life, and if that’s not enough to make Victor burst into tears…

Moving is slow; Victor feels like he’s pushing through molasses. Maybe it’s the previous month of hard training catching up to him. He wants to sink into the bench and never move, but instead, he slowly unlaces his skates, keeping his head down so that his hair covers his face.

Yakov keeps talking. It’s more comfort than Victor would have thought, but he barely pays attention.

_I don’t care about the streak at Europeans. It was never important to me._

_I don’t care about meeting Christophe or Michele or Emil again as competitors, either._

_Or Yura! I haven’t even competed against Yura_ , Victor realizes. _Was he as disappointed in my retirement as I was disappointed in Yuuri’s? I can make the argument that Yuuri and I at least skated on the same ice as competitors once, even if I couldn’t appreciate it at the time. Yura doesn’t even have that much._

_And that’s not it, anyway._

“Victor?” asks Yakov gently. Victor can’t remember the question. He’s not even sure he heard it.

It doesn’t matter; Victor knows the question he needs to answer.

“I have to prove I can still compete,” says Victor quietly. “So when I meet Yuuri and Yura and Christophe on the ice in Boston, everyone knows I’m taking this seriously.”

“Are you?” Yakov’s voice is a quiet challenge.

Victor heart _hurts_. “Do you really think I’d be sitting here if I wasn’t?” he snaps, and then digs his fingers into his scalp. “I dragged Yuuri here, away from his home and his family and everything that gave him what he needed to succeed – do you think I did that on a _whim_? If I didn’t care about my performance, I wouldn’t have asked you to coach me again.”

Yakov’s sigh is deep. “You think everything Yuuri needed to succeed was in Japan, do you?”

“I think he would have never won without being there.”

“And you had nothing to do with it?”

“Of course I did,” snaps Victor. “But so did he. So did everything else, just as much.”

Yakov’s response is biting. “You don’t think he can win gold from here?”

Victor’s head snaps up again. “I—”

_I’ll need you to become a five-time world champion, at least._

Victor stares at the ice in front of him. The Zamboni’s started its circling, but he can see the tracks from the morning’s skate left on the ice. It’s impossible to say who made which mark. If the spray of ice, the spinning circles, the breaks for jumps, are from Georgi or Yura or Mila or Yuuri.

“Tell me the reason you’re here, Victor.”

The sound of his skates on ice. The swish, the silence, the smack as his blade hit the surface and glide perfectly into the next element.

“I tried to explain that in the free skate. The one they refused to see.”

“ _Da, da_ ,” says Yakov, dismissive. “Your joy for skating. It’s a pretty program, Victor. It’s not what anyone expects from you, though. And before you protest, I know your creed. Always surprise the audience. Except now, the audience expects to be surprised. That you find joy on the ice? Not a surprise. That you love Yuuri? Also not a surprise. Tell us you are leaving the ice to raise a colony of penguins in South America – maybe they would be surprised.”

Victor can’t help his laughter. He falls forward, he rolls to the side, he stretches his torso with laughter and relishes the way it feels. The Zamboni passes by, all loud motors and the wet sounds of a fresh coat of ice being laid in its wake.

It wipes away all the imperfections and failures and successes from the past two hours and leaves a clean slate.

One day – perhaps very far in the future – no one will care that Victor Nikiforov was a five-time consecutive World Champion. They might not even remember his name.

“Your free skate is fine,” says Yakov, raising his voice above the Zamboni now clearing the ice, and over Victor’s laughter that still rings in the rink. “For anyone else. Not for you. You need to ask yourself, Victor – what is inside of you that surprises even you? That’s what you need to say on the ice.”

Victor takes a deep breath. “There’s ten weeks until Worlds. Do you really think I can find a new program by then, and learn it well enough to not make a fool of myself?”

“If anyone could, it’s you.”

Victor sits up a bit straighter and stares at his coach. “Was that – a _compliment_? Oh, God, Yakov. Are you dying?”

Yakov stands with a grunt. “Find your Yuuri. Go home with him after this afternoon’s skate. I’m an old man, Victor. I’d like to have dinner at a decent hour for once.”

Yakov is halfway to the door when Victor calls out.

“Vitya.”

Yakov stops. His head turns a bit, so that Victor can see his profile. He’s almost smiling.

“Vitya,” acknowledges Yakov. The way he says it makes Victor glad he’s given the name back to Yakov.

Victor almost misses what Yakov says when he turns. It’s so quiet, he’s not even sure it’s meant for his ears.

“I hope for your sake – you find what you need.”

Victor watches the Zamboni circle the ice, watches as the next flight of coaches and skaters shuffle in for practice. No one bothers him, though the older skaters give him a second or third glance.

_What surprises me?_

Yuuri’s acceptance by the Russian skating community?

No. Victor had never once doubted that his skating family would accept Yuuri, would be charmed by him and grow to like him as much as they obviously do.

_He and Mila are turning into such good friends. Yura looks up to him, even if Yuuri doesn’t realize it. Georgi doesn’t resent him being here – and of anyone, Georgi should resent him the most. The children he teaches in ballet follow him around like ducklings. If I were to retire again tomorrow, no one would miss me. But if Yuuri were to leave, they would mourn for years._

Yuuri’s clear happiness and excitement to train in Saint Petersburg?

Closer – but not entirely. Victor had hoped Yuuri would be happy – it had never been something he’d counted on.

_He laughs more here than he ever did at the Ice Castle. He smiles and jokes, not just here but with everyone. Training next to Yuuri is better than anything I could have imagined – I’m not sure how I trained before him and still enjoyed it. Surely it’s because I didn’t realize what I didn’t have._

_It’s having rinkmates, having other people nearby. It’s not just the two of us anymore. I miss that, sometimes, and I’m glad we had that time together, especially at the beginning of our relationship, but… for Yuuri, I think he needs other people to draw him out. I don’t think I realized how much, until I saw him as part of a larger whole._

Yuuri’s homesickness for Japan?

Not… exactly.

_He doesn’t miss the Ice Castle, even if he misses Yuuko and Takeshi. I don’t think he misses the onsen so much as he misses his parents and sister._

_But… he hasn’t put up the shrine yet. And I know he spends too much time in the apartment without me. He’s part of the community here, but he’s not part of Saint Petersburg in the same way he was part of Hasetsu._

_Yuuri surprises me every day – Yuuri will always surprise me._

_But when I try to skate about Yuuri… no one else is surprised._

_What would surprise them about me?_ _I know it… it’s right there… I just can’t see it!_

The noise in the rink is familiar; skates on ice, coaches cajoling and shouting and instructing in turns. Jokes and laughter, and once in a while, a hiccupping sob from a younger skater who is having a terrible day.

It’s comforting. It’s suffocating. Victor stands and gathers his things to go.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts that he nearly trips over Yuri in the locker room. The fact that Yuri has spread out across three benches doesn’t escape his notice.

“I thought you were supposed to be _graceful_ ,” snaps Yuri as he picks up one of the dropped textbooks. “If any of these are damaged, you’re paying for them.”

“Aren’t there schoolrooms you’re supposed to use?” asks Victor from the floor. He picks up one of the textbooks that’s landed face down. “What is this, Russian history?”

“Probably, I don’t know.” Yuri stacks the books roughly on the bench. “It’s not like I’ll ever need any of this shit, I’m going to skate until I’m dead and then I’ll coach like Yakov does.”

“He’s nicer than you,” says Victor absently, leafing through the book. “I think I remember this book.”

“You’re twice my age!”

“I know, it’s appalling, they should update these once in a while. Do they still refer to themselves as Comrade this and Comrade that?”

“You’re not _that_ old,” scoffs Yuri. “And I’m still going to wipe the ice with you in Ostrava next week.”

And there is a surprise – the way the knot forms in his throat so suddenly that Victor can’t speak. He turns a page in Yuri’s history textbook.

“What, no snappy comeback?”

“No,” Victor manages to say. It’s strange how guttural his voice sounds. “I’m not—”

He can’t finish. All he can do is clench his hands into fists.

_They’ve all been telling me for weeks. I just refused to listen. No one thought I’d go to Europeans._

Yuri is quiet. When he speaks, his voice wavers. “It’s because your free skate is shit, isn’t it?”

Victor catches his breath. _Did Yura really think I would go?_

Yuuri, back in their apartment… _I saw Alexei practicing today_ ….

_Was Yura the only one who thought I would compete?_

He slams the book shut. The sound echoes faintly in the empty locker room.

“Well, it is. I’m not going to apologize.” Yuri’s voice is defensive.

“I never expect you to,” says Victor through gritted teeth. He’s so angry, everything’s swimming out of focus. He can’t even see the cover of the textbook clearly, and it’s sitting on his lap.

“It’s your own fault, really,” continues Yuri. “You’re too selfish.”

“Selfish,” echoes Victor coldly.

“That’s what I said.”

“What, you think I should let _you_ choreograph my free skate? Not exactly an even trade for your short program, is it?”

Yuri snorts. “Like I’d even _want_ to choreograph for you. No, you asshole, I’m talking about Katsudon. You’re spending so much time coaching him that you barely have any time left over to pay attention to your own training. You’re not even that great of a coach, he can’t land a quad flip and here you’re the supposed _expert_.”

“Yuuri’s _my_ student.”

“Yeah, and I’m Yakov’s, and at least he still lets me _talk_ to Sasha and Katya and Baba Yaga. The minute you see Yuuri even say so much as _hello_ to one of them, you’re on his back like a wart. He could use their help and everyone in this rink knows it – even you. But you’re so selfish, you have to have all of Yuuri’s glory reflect back on you. It has to be you, you, you, solely responsible for Yuuri’s success. Superior Victor, who can compete and coach winning skaters at the same time. You probably think you’re going to tie for gold at Worlds.”

Victor shakes. He can’t look up at Yuri – if he does, he might reach out and grab him, squeeze his face like a pimple again, only this time, he won’t let go.

“He’s going to figure it out,” continues Yuri. “What do you think he’ll do, when he realizes you won’t even let him learn from someone who can actually _help_ him? Why bother bringing him here, if you’re not going to let him have any of the benefits? You really thought he’d want to stay with _you_ , when he’s got Yakov and Sasha and Katya to help him? He’s a moron but he’s not _stupid_.”

Squeeze and squeeze and _squeeze_ , until his fingerprints stay dark red blotches on Yuri’s face.

“What a good fucking thing it is that Yuuri loves you,” says Yuri. Almost as if he’s in awe. “If it’d been me, I would have gone behind your back.”

Victor sucks in a breath – and as he does, the picture on the front of Yuri’s textbook comes into focus.

Victor recognizes [Repin’s portrayal of Ivan the Terrible and his son](https://www.wikiart.org/en/ilya-repin/ivan-the-terrible-and-his-son-ivan-on-november-16-1581-1885) immediately. The dark room around the figures is disheveled. The rugs are kicked up and furniture has been knocked over, testament to the rage that drove Ivan to mortally wound his own child, who lies bloody and dying in his father’s arms.

Ivan’s face is already full of regret as his hand covers the wound he’s inflicted.

His son tries to hold himself up with one hand on his father’s arm. Victor can never decide – is Ivan Ivanovich pushing his murderer away? Or resting his hand on his father in forgiveness?

_He killed the thing he loved the most_.

_It’s Yuuri. I’m killing Yuuri._

“You know,” says Yuri, “if you want to take the history test for me, I’m sure I can bribe the teacher to let you try.”

_Yuuri didn’t win because of me – he won because of him. Because he was in the place he needed to be, surrounded by the people he needed to support him. _

_And I took him away from that. I dragged him halfway across the world on a whim._

“Huh?” Victor looks up, so dazed that it takes a moment before Yuri’s features swim into focus.

“Are you drunk?” asks Yuri, suspicious. “Because if you’ve found Yakov’s secret stash of vodka, you need to share.”

_I was so selfish, wanting to compete against Yuuri as equals – I’ve denied Yuuri the chance to become a champion in his own right._

“It’s in his water bottle,” says Victor, still dazed.

_How could I have been so blind?_

“I need to find Yuuri,” says Victor, scrambling to his feet.

“Ugh,” grumbles Yuri. “I hope I never fall in love, you’re both disgusting. Give me back my book, I’ll learn it on my own.”

Yuri snatches the book back; Victor’s thoughts swim in his head. All he wants is to _find_ Yuuri. Immediately.

He races through the hallways, barely even conscious of the people he nearly runs over in his haste.

_I was wrong. I can’t do this to Yuuri. I can’t lose him. We have to go back. We’re both so miserable – I have to convince him I was wrong._

He sees Yuuri in the hall just outside the yoga room, moments before Yuuri sees him.

Yuuri’s laughing at something Mila has said. His hair is damp, his skin still has the shine of sweat, though he’s not red-faced from exertion anymore. He’s loose now, and Victor knows the languid, fluid sort of feeling that Yuuri will have in his muscles after a yoga session. It’s the exact opposite of the tension Victor still feels, the tight anger and disappointment that are driving him forward, will keep pushing him for the rest of the day, until it all gives out and he collapses in his bed at home.

_Their_ bed. In _their_ home.

_He looks happy._

_He is happy._

“Victor!” says Yuuri, catching sight of him, and the pleasure on his face turns quickly to concern. “Oh….”

Mila’s eyes go wide and she grasps Georgi by the arm. “We’ll save you a table,” she says, and they disappear.

_How did I miss that Yuuri’s happy here?_

The realization that he’s been wrong falls on him like a heavy load across his shoulders.

_I was wrong about Yuuri._

_I was wrong about the Europeans._

_What else am I wrong about?_

Victor knows he should keep walking toward Yuuri – and so he does, until he and Yuuri are finally standing next to each other. Yuuri’s eyes are wide under his glasses, and this close, Victor can see the tendrils of hair that are sweat-glued to his skin.

“Hey,” says Yuuri, all worry and concern and nerves. “Did you… I mean….”

“I’m not going to Ostrava,” says Victor dully. “They’ll decide about Worlds next month.”

Yuuri lets out a breath, closes his eyes briefly, and then nods. “Okay. Okay.”

He reaches and takes Victor’s hand. It’s warm against Victor’s fingers.

“Come on,” says Yuuri gently. “Let’s go eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who want to see the painting referenced and did not click the link, [here it is](https://www.wikiart.org/en/ilya-repin/ivan-the-terrible-and-his-son-ivan-on-november-16-1581-1885).


	22. Half Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for posting this a day later than I promised; real life intervened in an unexpected way. Everything and everyone is fine, though, so no worries.

** Chapter Twenty-two: Half Empty **

Victor doesn’t stay after their afternoon skate. Yuuri is only confused for a moment as Victor follows him off the ice. It makes sense, though. Normally bubbly, cheerful, ever-ready with a quip, Victor’s been quiet all afternoon, going through the motions as if he’s merely marking time. Yuuri almost mentions it when Victor joins the rest of the group as they stretch out their muscles from the long day.

But there’s a weary resignation on Victor’s face, so Yuuri lets it go.

Yuuri’s not sure what to do about this Victor. He takes his cues from Mila and Georgi, who largely accept his silence. They don’t cut Victor out of the conversation so much as they simply allow him to be near, without the pressure of participating.

It’s obvious how tired Victor is when they’re sitting in the back of Pavel’s car on the way home. Victor leans up against Yuuri and rests his head on his shoulder. His eyes are closed before they’re even halfway to the main road.

_I should let him sleep. He’s been working so hard. Everyone’s been saying for weeks that the Europeans weren’t going to happen for him. It looks like he heard it today._

_I’m not sure what I should be doing now. Usually he’s been the one to comfort me. I don’t know what it takes to comfort him._

_He always gives me space to breathe when I need it. Maybe that’s because he needs the same thing. I’ll let him rest._

Yuuri waits until the car has fully stopped in front of their apartment before he whispers to Victor. “Wake up – we’re home.”

Victor sighs softly – it’s a strangely contented sigh, for all its melancholy. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Okay.”

“You’re humoring me,” Victor complains as they step out of the car.

“Only a little,” admits Yuuri. Victor makes a face but remains silent.

They don’t speak again until they’re in the apartment. It’s almost strange, going up to the apartment with Victor next to him. Yuuri keeps glancing at him, not quite believing that he’s there. It’s so close to what he _thought_ he’d be getting – coming home together, making dinner, talking or watching terrible television before heading to bed together.

Except it’s… not. Any previous semblance of a routine Yuuri’s made for himself in the last few weeks is completely destroyed.

_I’m nervous. This is stupid! Why am I nervous? We’ve been living together for almost three weeks, if you don’t count sharing a room in Hasetsu._

 Makkachin bounds up to them. Victor goes down to his knees to grab the dog by the scruff of her neck. She’s over-excited to see him, and Yuuri can’t help but smile.

“Hey, girl,” says Victor fondly, exhausted. “Excited to see me home early for once?”

“She never greets me that enthusiastically, that’s for sure,” remarks Yuuri.

Victor’s quiet for a moment, his fingers moving in Makkachin’s fur. “I… you came home by yourself a lot. I’m sorry. I won’t stay so late anymore now.”

It’s what Yuuri’s wanted to hear – but the defeat in Victor’s heart isn’t how he wanted to hear it. Makkachin wriggles against Victor, and then goes to butt Yuuri in the knees, before looking eagerly at her leash, tail wagging furiously.

“Oh,” says Victor blankly. “You want a walk, don’t you?”

“No, wait,” says Yuuri quickly. “You’re exhausted. I’ve got an idea. Call Duo and order some dinner, and then you can take a hot shower. I’ll take Makkachin for a walk and pick up whatever you order on the way back. And then we can watch terrible television and go to sleep like normal people.”

Victor chuckles. “All right.” He stays on the floor, watching as Yuuri reaches for the leash. “What do you want?”

“Anything. Surprise me,” says Yuuri in a rush. He’s gone before he can lose his nerve.

Makkachin’s with him. There’s always people out and about, even at this hour, even in this cold.

_It’ll be fine_ , he tells himself. _No one’s going to follow me. No one’s going to say anything. Stop worrying. It’ll be fine._

*

_Surprise me_ , Yuuri had said.

_All right, then_ , Victor thinks as he listens to the elevator take Yuuri and Makkachin downstairs.

Victor walks straight over to the cabinet on the far side of the room where he keeps the drinking glasses.

The bottle of vodka is in the freezer. It’s heavier than Victor expected and hits the island in the kitchen with an echoing _thunk_.

Victor stares at the bottle for a long moment.

He’s not an alcoholic. He’s _Russian_. There’s a line between the two, and it’s not a hyphen. Victor has grown up knowing where the line exists for him. He knows the rules for drinking, not because he was ever taught them, but because they’re so much a part _of_ him that he’s fully aware that what he wants to do, right then, goes against everything he’s ever learned.

Drink only for the best of reasons. In celebration, in acknowledgement of momentous occasions. Drink to mark the day, not to struggle through it.

_I’ve put my life on hold for the last two weeks for something I was never going to have. Yuuri drowned his failure in alcohol once – and it worked out in the end for him, even if he doesn’t remember. Maybe I should give it a try._

Never drink alone.

_Yuuri will be back soon. And even if he won’t drink with me, he’ll at least make sure I don’t throw myself out the window, or invite the neighbors over for a dance-off._

Never leave a bottle half-empty.

_Well. It’s a small bottle._

He cracks the bottle open, pours a measure, and lifts it up in a toast.

_Sergei would know what to say—_

The thought of Sergei hurts too much. Better not to think of him.

“To the everlasting glory of the Russian figure skating empire, may it never lose face in the pursuit of superiority,” Victor says to the empty apartment, and drinks.

The burn goes straight down his throat, and when he comes up coughing again, he laughs in surprise.

_Bozhe moi, what the hell did Marina stock for me? There’s another rule broken – nothing to eat until Yuuri’s home. I’ll be lucky if I have any stomach lining left._

He can already feel the alcohol coursing through his fingers when he turns on the water in the shower. The way everything feels a bit fuzzier around the edges, the bright lightness at the back of his head. He rides the feeling as he strips off his clothes, kicks them into a corner of the bathroom, and steps into the stall.

The water is blistering hot on Victor’s skin. He doesn’t care. Yuuri must have showered last; he likes the water even hotter than Victor does. It’s growing up in close proximity to a hot spring, Victor thinks. A sauna, no matter how pleasant, isn’t quite the same, and eight months of being able to bathe every day in the onsen isn’t enough to make Victor want to scald his skin by rote every morning.

Just now, however – it’s good.

He’s not drunk yet, not on one glass of vodka. But his thoughts are freer, less painful. He lets them slide from one point to the next, like he’s observing someone else’s thought process.

_I’m not going to the Europeans._

_The programs I develop now will never have a chance to stretch their legs. I’ll only have once chance to show them to the world at competition strength._

_Everyone else competing will have had an entire season to perfect their programs. They’ll have been constantly working on them, altering them based on not just what they are capable of performing, but on what is being performed around them._

_I wasn’t wrong when I told Chris that I have an advantage over him, from having seen his programs twice in competition. I know what I need to beat him._

_And maybe they might think it’s my advantage because they have no idea what it will take to beat me, but that’s not true._

_They have something I’m not going to have a chance to claim for myself – they have the audience. Every person in the audience at Worlds, including the judges, will have seen every single one of their programs over the course of the season. The audience will know what the skaters are capable of doing – they’ll have seen the highs and lows and successes and failures. They’ll know if they’re seeing Chris or Yuuri or Michele or JJ at their best – or at their lowest. They’ll respond in kind – and the judges respond to the audience, even if it’s purely subconscious._

_The other skaters are fooling themselves if they think the judges are giving their scores based solely on what they see on the ice. They’re not. They’re judging a season, not a performance, no matter what the scoresheets say. It’s why JJ scored so well at the Final, when it should have been Otabek by rights on the podium._

_The judges won’t have that history for me. They won’t know if they’re seeing my best performance, or my worst. The audience won’t have had a chance to fall in love with the story I’m telling. They’ll cheer – but it won’t be the cheers of a beloved performance done beautifully. They won’t have been able to anticipate seeing something in person that until then, they’ve enjoyed only on a television or computer screen._

_Europeans was going to give me that. I’d still be behind the rest – but I’d have had a chance to stretch the legs of my programs, to give everyone the opportunity to fall in love with the story I want to tell. To give myself a stage on which to see what clicks and what doesn’t in front of an audience. To figure out if I’m telling it the right way, or if it needs something more._

_And now… I’m not. I’m going to Worlds just as blind to my program’s faults as the world is to my program’s strengths._

_How am I going to measure up to Yuuri like that? How am going to prove to him that I deserve to be skating alongside him after all?_

Any buzz from the single shot of vodka is long gone now.

_You’re a fool_ , Yakov had said in April, when Victor had left Saint Petersburg to train Yuuri.

_You’re a madman_ , Yakov had told him in Barcelona in December, when Victor made grand statements about his return.

_I hope for your sake…._

Victor stands under the spray, letting the water hit him just under the nape of his neck, as he ducks his head forward. The water is so hot, and his skin is so tender, he imagines that it’s not just sweat and disappointment being shed, but the thick layer of certainty that he’s built up around himself over the last month. The idea that he could step right back onto the ice, step back into the role of Five-time World Champion Victor Nikiforov, as if it’d only been eight hours, and not eight months, since he’d last stood in that light.

Well, Yuuri had made grand statements too. _I’m going to prove my love by winning gold at the Grand Prix Final_.

He hadn’t won gold in the end, but Victor doesn’t want to think any more along that path, or what Yuuri’s inability to get the gold might symbolize. He wrenches off the water and reaches for a towel.

_If Worlds is the only time anyone will see these programs, I have to make them programs worth remembering. Yakov once told me: skate your fears, skate your joys, skate your sorrows._

_I skated my sorrow last year. It brought me Yuuri._

_I’m skating my joy in my short program. It’ll be what convinces the officials to send me to Worlds._

_That leaves skating my fears._

_What do I fear?_

He dresses in a pair of pajama pants with loops and circles on them. They’re gaudy and horrible, but Zhenya gave them to him for a Christmas present ten years ago so he wears them. They’re the most comfortable thing he owns. A grey t-shirt, because while he knows it’s going to feel cold in the apartment after his impossibly hot shower, he’s hoping to maybe convince Yuuri to snuggle under a blanket with him while they watch terrible television.

“Yuuri!” he calls out. Yuuri’s name echoes in the still empty apartment.

_Not back yet. I hope he’s not lost._

Victor goes over to his phone – no messages. He thinks about texting Yuuri, his thumb hovering over the app before he remembers that Yuuri’s phone is still on roaming. Even the cost of a single text will make Yuuri wince. And Yuuri’s probably already on his way back, juggling the bag of food and Makkachin’s leash.

_He’ll text or call if he gets lost_ , Victor tells himself, and sets the phone back down. _We’ll settle his phone this weekend. It’s not like I’ll need to go in on Sundays anymore._

Victor turns back to the apartment, and stares.

It’s quiet.

He can’t remember it ever being this quiet. There’s always noise, whether it’s Mila rummaging in the kitchen as she pretends to play house, or Georgi queuing up a hockey game in the lounge, or Makkachin’s quiet huffs of happiness as she chews on a new toy. The sound of her toenails clicking as she moves from room to room, the thump of her tail against the bed as he falls asleep at night.

Victor has been alone before: countless hotel rooms where he turned on the television just for the background noise, the quiet space in the back of Pavel’s car with the sound of traffic on the other side of the windows. Nighttime walks in Hasetsu, when the summer heat faded into the stars above and Victor could still feel the pleasant alcoholic burn of sake in his blood.

He's lived in his apartment for six years, and he can’t remember a time when there wasn’t someone else in it, even if that someone else was only Makkachin. Before that, he’d lived with Sergei, who rarely left his apartment, and before _that_ , he was in the skating dorms, where no one was _ever_ alone.

He walks through the apartment, because at least his footsteps on the floor provide a sort of soundtrack to the thoughts running through his head. The vodka is waiting where he left it; he pours another glass and carries it into living room while he tries to remember the last time he had as much alone time as he’s had today.

Alone on the ice, all eyes on him? Not since the previous Worlds.

Alone on the sidelines, unnoticed by anyone? Go back even further, to when he was still new on the Senior circuit, a stick-thin kid with too-long hair and baby-fat cheeks.

The walls are thin where Victor stands; he can hear the familiar crank of the elevator approaching. _Yuuri_ , thinks Victor, and turns expectantly toward the door.

The elevator doesn’t stop; it just keeps climbing. Not Yuuri.

Victor turns back to the picture window and drinks down his second glass of vodka, ignoring the brief spike of guilt for the lack of a toast, but unable to find anything to acknowledge. Instead, he looks out onto Saint Petersburg. It glitters at night, soot-brown overcast sky and sparkling lights like jewels, a dark ribbon where the river disappears into the night. The candy puffs of the cathedral, and squares of multi-colored lights from other windows in other apartments.

_What scares me_.

Being alone is unsettling in a way Victor didn’t quite expect. He’s been alone in snatches, of course. In the car on the way back from practice. In Hasetsu while Yuuri completes some other part of his training with Minako or Takeshi. On the midnight flight from Russia, desperate to reach Makkachin on the other side of the world, Yuuri further and further away with each passing second.

That was the worst. Not knowing about Makkachin. Knowing about Yuuri. Being unable to do a damn thing to help either of them.

This is… different. Neither of them are in danger – but Victor feels just as helpless, just as desperate, just as _lost_ as he did on the long flight.

_This will be what it’s like when Makkachin dies_ , he thinks as he looks out onto the city. _Alone in my cold apartment, looking out at a world I only see through glass._

The elevator chugs again, and Victor tenses. It doesn’t stop on his floor.

It will happen sooner than not, of course. At fifteen, Makkachin is already past the average life span for a standard poodle. She’ll be sixteen in a few months. Victor already knows how lucky they’ve both been, with the travel and the time he’s been allowed to have with her in Hasetsu.

_You really thought he’d stay with you?_

Yuri’s words still sting. Victor closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the cold glass. His arms wrap around his stomach and hold tight.

_You’re holding him back. He’s going to hate you._

The words from twenty years before, overheard from another conversation and remembered in crystal clarity, even if he can’t quite remember the face of the person who said them. They apply just as well now to Yuuri as they did to Victor as a child.

The elevator is a dull roar, the only noise in the apartment except for the echo of Victor’s breath against the glass.

_Someday, this will be my forever. No Makkachin. No Yuuri. Just me, and the cold glass that separates me from the rest of the world._

His mother’s voice. _Don’t ever be so famous, Viten’ka, that you can’t find someone who won’t love you for being you._

The elevator rumbles behind him.

_But I did find someone, Mama. I was lucky. I’ll probably never be so lucky again._

_If I lose him…_

Ivan the Terrible, holding his dying son in his arms, knowing he’s the one who killed him…

“Oh,” says Victor, a release of breath, as the locks on the door start to clink and clank.

“Oh, you’re out of the shower,” says Yuuri, opening the door, as Makkachin pads straight to her water bowl. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think we took so long. We walked as fast as we could.”

“You weren’t long at all,” says Victor, hoping the reassurance covers the relief he feels mixed up with the strange shock in the back of his mind.

The music that’s already beginning to form. The choreography that’s already there, on the tip of his thoughts.

“I think I want to reheat the soup,” says Yuuri from the kitchen, where he’s unpacking the bag of food. His voice sounds a bit odd, as if he’s talking for the sake of talking, just to fill the silence. “It’s really cold outside, and the restaurant didn’t wrap it very well.”

“That’s fine, I had a thought about my free skate, I should write it down,” says Victor, and he’s so proud of himself for remaining so _calm_ about, he barely hears Yuuri’s response.

“Okay. Come back out when you’re done.”

But instead of going to write – Victor watches as Yuuri sets out the food, pours the soup into a pot to reheat. It all smells delicious, and Victor supposes he’s hungry, but…

The open bottle of vodka is still sitting on the island, exactly as Victor left it. He stares at it for a moment. There’s still a faint, alcoholic buzz under Victor’s skin.

“Do you want another?” says Yuuri, so calm and collected. As if he noticed the bottle already and has come to terms with it sitting there.

Or maybe as if he doesn’t understand the significance. Or if he does, doesn’t care.

“No,” says Victor. He thinks he means it.

Yuuri moves through the kitchen with grace and ease. He opens drawers, pulls out silverware, opens a cabinet and pulls out dishes. Placemats, napkins, bowls of sour cream and chives – all find their way to the table. He sets out glasses and fills them with water.

It takes Victor a moment to realize. Yuuri’s not rummaging or looking for anything. He knows exactly where everything is in the kitchen, probably even better than Victor himself.

“You’ve had more time here than I have,” says Victor suddenly.

_I’ve already abandoned him._

“I guess I have,” Yuuri says, a bit apologetically. “I’m sorry, I should have asked before—”

“No,” says Victor, his voice so short he knows it comes off as angry, particularly given the way Yuuri goes still. Victor exhales sharply and tries to shake off the guilt. “It’s… good that you know it so well. It’s your home, too.”

Yuuri clutches the water bottle to his chest for a moment. “I – I know that,” he stammers.

“I want you to be comfortable—”

“I _am_ comfortable—”

“I don’t want you to—” Victor can’t continue; the words catch in his throat, and he closes his eyes tight, biting his lips together.

“Vitya?”

He can’t speak. The words are knotted in his throat.

“ _Viten’ka_.”

It’s a whisper. It’s enough. He sucks in a shaking breath with Yuuri’s cold hands on Victor’s hot cheeks, the smell of nighttime clinging to his skin. Yuuri draws Victor down, pulls until Victor’s wrapped his arms around Yuuri instead of himself. They cling to each other while the soup pops and bubbles on the stove.

“I’m all right,” mumbles Victor into Yuuri’s shoulder. “I’m just tired.”

“I know,” says Yuuri gently. “Eat something.”

Victor doesn’t even _remember_ ordering the food, but he’s managed to order everything he loves best. Chicken and potatoes and string beans, an Olivier salad and all of Victor’s favorite comfort foods. The sour cream melts into the borscht and warms him from head to toe.

“I think my stomach has shrunk,” says Yuuri glumly, when he can barely finish the food Victor keeps heaping on his plate. “It’s all the plates Anna Anatolyevna in the cafeteria keeps taking away from me. I should tell her tomorrow, she’ll be so proud.”

“Don’t,” says Victor. “You’ll spur her on to greater heights of starvation.”

Yuuri snorts and gets up to start putting away the extra food. “The way you ate in Hasetsu makes _so_ much more sense now.”

“I did say your mother would have easily fit in one of my trunks.”

Yuuri smiles as he takes Victor’s plate. Victor lets out a whine, but Yuuri holds the plate away. “Oh, no, you’ll make yourself sick.”

Victor reaches for Yuuri – but Yuuri’s too fast, and too aware of him to be caught, and he dances right out of Victor’s fingers, laughing.

Victor tries to ignore the pang in his heart, hearing Yuuri’s gentle laughter as he darts away.

“Yuuri.”

Yuuri turns, and his breath catches.

Yuuri sets the plate down, so slowly and deliberately that the sound of it echoes in the empty kitchen. Two steps, and he stands before Victor, who presses his face into Yuuri’s stomach, arms around him, holding him close.

Yuuri’s hands settle into Victor’s hair, a gentle, soothing caress. Yuuri smells like the ice, like sweat and faded detergent. Victor closes his eyes and breathes him in.

Victor waits for Yuuri to speak – to say something comforting, to reassure him that it’s all right. To fill the silence with words, the way he had earlier upon seeing the evidence of Victor’s solitary drinking.

Yuuri doesn’t speak, though. Victor wonders if they’re both waiting for the other to begin.

He doesn’t want to wait any longer.

“Take me to bed,” he says. Yuuri’s hands still for a moment.

“Okay,” says Yuuri gently. There’s a waver in his voice, as if he’s not entirely sure what Victor’s asking. As if Victor’s never asked for them to sleep together before.

Then again – Victor hasn’t had to _ask_ in months. He wonders if maybe Yuuri thought he’d want different sleeping arrangements that night.

They move through the apartment, turning off lights, putting food away, leaving the dirty dishes in a pile by the sink. Makkachin’s water bowl is refilled, the locks on the door are double-checked, and all the other small things associated with putting the apartment to bed for the night.

When they reach the bedroom, Yuuri gently pushes Victor to sit on the bed. Victor grabs Yuuri’s hand and kisses Yuuri’s fingers, one by one, before kissing the palm of his hand, the inside of his wrist, up to his elbow.

“Vitya,” whispers Yuuri.

Victor looks up, and Yuuri opens his mouth, ready to speak.

He doesn’t say anything. Victor wonders what it is that stops him. Something about the way that Yuuri is looking at him – so maybe it’s something about the way Victor looks, in that moment.

Victor’s not sure how he _looks_. He’s not even sure how he _feels_. Lost might describe it.

Yuuri bends down and kisses him, one hand cupped around the back of Victor’s neck. It’s not a comfortable position. Victor reaches up and pulls Yuuri back. They fall onto the mattress with a soft bounce.

He can’t stop kissing Yuuri. He can’t stop _touching_ Yuuri. His hands grip Yuuri’s shirt in bunches, dragging it up Yuuri’s back to expose his waist, until he presses his palms against the smooth skin. There’s a laugh in the back of Yuuri’s throat – bewildered and bemused, and Victor chases it.

“Here, let me—” says Yuuri. He pushes up, one knee between Victor’s legs as he takes off his glasses and drops them on the side table next to Victor’s phone. He’s too far away – Victor’s fingers graze Yuuri’s skin as his shirt drops back down.

Victor can’t help the keening whine in the back of his throat, but Yuuri is heedless of his need. He pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion and throws it to the side.

Victor’s breath catches in his throat. There’s a bruise just on Yuuri’s left side, opposite Victor’s fingers – dark blue turning to purple. Victor’s fingers drift across the flat of Yuuri’s stomach until they’re just at the edge of the discoloration.

“Yuuri,” he whispers.

Yuuri bends and peers at the bruise.

“Oh. I didn’t realize – that must have been from today. It doesn’t hurt much,” says Yuuri, reassuring him, and then he bends over Victor again. “Your thighs look worse.”

Victor closes his eyes and winces. “Don’t remind me.”

Yuuri’s kiss is soft, right on the edge of his mouth. Victor’s mouth drops open as he breathes in the scent of Yuuri’s skin: sweat and ice and the chicken from dinner.

Yuuri’s voice is a whisper. “What do you need tonight?”

_You, here, with me._

“Okay,” says Yuuri, and kisses him again. Victor’s not sure he spoke – it doesn’t matter. Yuuri seems to have heard.

The rest of their clothes come off without much thought. Yuuri kisses down Victor’s naked chest, past his hipbones and the line of his thigh. He nuzzles his nose in the thatch of hair at Victor’s groin while Victor rolls his head back on the mattress. Victor’s cock is heavy and thick with Yuuri’s mouth so close. All Victor can think of is the warmth that is surely coming – but Yuuri doesn’t take him in.

Instead, he pushes gently, opening Victor’s legs until Victor is splayed out before him.

Yuuri licks the soft skin around Victor’s cock, around his balls, and then the smooth expanse between them and the pucker of hole.

Victor lets out a hoarse cry. His legs open even further and he tilts his pelvis up. When Yuuri licks his perineum again, Victor can barely breathe. His entire body is in a strange sort of stasis: every muscle on edge, waiting for what comes next, anxious but barely daring to hope.

He hears Yuuri take a shaking breath – it almost sounds like he’s asking some silent god for courage.

“Vit’enka.” Yuuri’s whisper is only a thread above silence. “Is this—?”

“ _Yes_ ,” gasps Victor, clutching the bedclothes.

The soft press of wet on Victor’s skin, the damp warmth of Yuuri’s mouth over his entrance. Yuuri’s tongue, shyly and cautious leaving wet patches on the puckered rim.

Victor presses his head back into the cushions, unable to cry out, unable to _breathe_ , unable to do anything but feel and shake and tense his muscles, desperate to remain still, desperate for the touch to continue, desperate not to spook Yuuri into drawing away.

Yuuri kisses him, licks him, holds him open. It goes on forever; Victor’s desperately aware of every touch, every second until it’s over too quickly with the pop of a bottle. Yuuri’s slick fingers probe him, preparing him more thoroughly than Yuuri’s tongue ever could.

Victor can’t help the disappointment that shoots through him – but his stomach is already tense, his cock is aching, knowing what’s coming. He reaches down for Yuuri, blindly, and Yuuri clasps their hands together as he covers him on the bed.

“Yuuri—” He sounds strangled. He _feels_ strangled.

“It’s okay,” whispers Yuuri. “I’ve got you.”

Yuuri slides into him, their hands still clasped near Victor’s ears. Victor gasps with the motions as Yuuri moves, listens to Yuuri whisper hoarse phrases in Japanese and English into his ear. _Yes_ and _need_ and _beautiful_ and _love_.

(The last is in English. Yuuri never says _love_ in Japanese. Victor looked it up on Google translate once; it’s a ridiculously long and complicated phrase, but he’s sure he’ll recognize when – _if_ – Yuuri ever says it. Yuuri never has.

Victor doesn’t want to think about what that means, that Yuuri only loves him in English.)

Victor pulls his knees up, feels his body shift to accommodate Yuuri, and it’s enough to change everything: Yuuri gasps and falls forward a little, and then… then everything speeds up as Victor presses his nose into Yuuri’s neck, his chest curving up and away. Yuuri pushes up on their joined hands – Victor can see his face now, the way his eyes are screwed shut, a near-grimace on his face, his breath coming in short gasps through his clenched teeth.

Victor wants to watch him – but then Yuuri’s cock slides in him, slowly drawing back out again. The sudden spike of pleasure zings right up every nerve ending, straight to his brain, and Victor lets out a hoarse cry as his eyes involuntarily close. He’s there, on the edge, ready to topple, praying Yuuri’s ready too.

“K-k-kiss me,” he gasps. Yuuri does, pounding into him until Victor’s shaking and shuddering his release, just before Yuuri breaks off the kiss to gasp in Victor’s open mouth as he comes.

It’s afterwards, their bodies still pressed close together as Yuuri sprawls half on Victor, half on the bed, that Victor realizes Yuuri is still trembling. Yuuri’s long since slipped out of him, and Victor’s come is still sticky and wet on his stomach, the lube slipping wetly onto the sheets. Yuuri’s cock is wet and cold on Victor’s hip.

He doesn’t want to move, even if everything around him shudders in the cool air.

_No… that’s me. I’m trembling_.

Victor’s shoulders shake. His chest heaves as every part of him _moves_ , unable to remain still.

His eyes are hot. His throat hurts, as if it’s tied in a knot.

“Vitya?”

Victor tries to respond. He can’t.

Yuuri wraps his arms around him and holds on tight.

“Hey,” says Yuuri. Victor hears the worry in his voice. “It’s okay.”

“I just….” Victor tries to take a breath. It catches in his throat. “I really wanted to go to Europeans.” He can hear the whine in his voice; he hates it.

“I know,” whispers Yuuri, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

“I don’t want to let you down.”

“ _Vitya_. How are you letting me down?”

“I have to be ready for you,” mumbles Victor. “I have to—”

“Victor. _Vitya_.” Yuuri takes Victor’s face in his hands. Victor can feel him shift, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be _fantastic_. You’re going to wipe the ice with me in Boston.”

Victor grips Yuuri’s wrists. “You’ll have had six months more with your programs than I will.”

“You’ve got enough gold medals to tile your bathroom. I think it evens out.”

_You don’t understand_ , Victor wants to shout at him. _It’s not about what I did last year or the year before or the years before that. It’s what I do now, it’s always about what I do now. The ice is wiped clean every summer, and I’ve barely made a mark…._

“One good thing about not going to the Europeans,” says Yuuri, a bit timidly. “You have more time to prepare. That’s good, right?”

Victor doesn’t want to say anything, but he can feel Yuuri growing tenser by the moment. “Yes,” he says flatly. “No more late nights. No more Sundays.”

He feels Yuuri relax as he exhales. “Good,” says Yuuri. “I miss you.”

Victor can’t fall apart. He _can’t_. Not now.

Victor squeezes his eyes tighter. He tries to breathe as if enough air will keep Yuuri from knowing how close he is to deflating entirely. “I know. I’m sorry. I miss you too.”

He feels the kiss on the top of his head, and there’s something about the pressure of it that makes Victor think it’s more grateful than loving.

“Go to sleep,” says Yuuri kindly.

“Okay,” slurs Victor.

Yuuri’s hands trail up and down his back. Victor keeps his eyes closed, listens to the distant sound of traffic outside, the soft chime of Makkachin’s collar as she jumps up onto the bed to spread out at their feet. Listens to Yuuri’s heart beat under his ear, the _tick tick tick_ of the radiator, the faint grumble of the elevator moving up and down.

He opens his eyes in the dark, just once.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he whispers into Yuuri’s skin.

“Where would I go?” mumbles Yuuri, so close to sleep that Victor’s not sure Yuuri isn’t speaking from a dream.

_Everywhere_ , thinks Victor, and then he’s asleep.

*

It’s still dark outside when Yuuri wakes in the morning. Victor sleeps pressed up next to him, though at least he’s no longer clinging as if Yuuri’s the life raft keeping him afloat.

Yuuri sits up, careful not to shake the mattress too much, and checks the time on his phone.

_It can’t be too late, Victor usually wakes up first—oh. It’s nearly seven. He must have forgotten to set his alarm._

Yuuri’s about to shake Victor’s shoulder to wake him up, but stops just before he makes contact. He lets his hand rest on the mattress instead.

_He’s so exhausted. He’s been working flat out ever since we got here. I knew he was putting himself under a lot of pressure, trying to get ready for competition while still coaching me, but… I don’t think he realized how much it was taking out of him._

_I realized it. I realized it weeks ago. I should have done something then. I shouldn’t have let him get this tired._

Victor’s face is relaxed, but there’s a slight frown that makes him look so serious.

_We can’t go on like this._

The thought materializes from nowhere. It makes Yuuri catch his breath.

_The only way I can stop him from tearing himself apart is to stop giving him a reason to try._

Yuuri slips out of the bed, takes their phones, and goes into the other room.

He sends a text to Yakov first. _Victor is sleeping in. We’ll be there after lunch._

He looks up the next phone number on Victor’s phone, suddenly grateful for Magdalena’s insistence on Russian literacy. He’s about to type the number into his phone when he gets Yakov’s reply.

_Fine._

Yuuri bites his lips together. There’s more unsaid in four letters than he’s ever seen.

It doesn’t matter. He’ll take it.

Yuuri creates a new contact, copying the number from Victor’s phone into his own. He opens a new text and types quickly, hoping the recipient’s written English is as good as his spoken English.

_This is Yuuri Katsuki. Please help me with my quad flip. Please do not tell Victor._

Sasha replies less than a minute later.

_We’ll start today._

 


	23. While the Cat's Away...

** Chapter Twenty-three: While the Cat’s Away **

The morning after the trials, Victor wakes up in such a strangely good mood that Yuuri worries he’s accidentally concussed himself and ended up with amnesia. The melancholy that had taken Victor over the night before is gone, as if all he needed was just a few hours in which to feel sorry for himself before bouncing right back to his usual optimistic outlook. The only sign of Victor’s dark night is a determination and a fire in his eyes. Yuuri doesn’t quite recognize it, but it’s still a relief to see.

For one week, life becomes so, so much easier. There’s an extra spring in Victor’s steps as he prepares breakfast or packs clean socks in their bags. He sings and hums under his breath, songs in Russian and French that Yuuri’s never heard and only barely understands. He drops kisses on Yuuri’s head and makes tea that actually tastes like tea and not like burning.

Practice is the same, for which Yuuri thanks his lucky stars. He thought it would be fraught with tension and ill-will toward the rest of the team, but Victor’s disappointment might have been water off a duck’s back for all that he seems to hold a grudge. He jokes with Mila, confers with Georgi, listens and disregards Yakov in turn, and shouts unsolicited advice at Yurio.

And if Yurio ignores the advice… well, he’s not the only one ignoring someone. Yuuri studiously avoids Sasha, Sasha avoids Victor, and Victor avoids any conversation that comes close to mentioning Europeans and the fact that he’s not going.

_Well, it’s not like I can blame him_ , thinks Yuuri as he watches Yurio set up and execute a nearly perfect quad toe. _I probably wouldn’t want to talk about it either. At least he’s moving on and focusing on Worlds._

Yurio’s skates clatter, but he still manages to land the jump, despite being slightly under-rotated. Sasha begins talking to him almost immediately, while Yurio bends over and catches his breath.

Victor skids to a stop next to Yuuri, slightly out of breath from his own run of combination jumps, one after the other. “How’s he look?”

“Not great,” admits Yuuri while Victor downs half a bottle of water in a single gulp.

Victor comes up for air. “It’s his first time competing against the entire Senior field from Europe at the same time.”

“He looks stressed,” says Yuuri quietly. “Or angry. I can’t tell which it is.”

“He looks fifteen,” says Victor, unconcerned. “He’ll be fine, he has years ahead of him.”

“Eh?” But Victor’s already skated away, and Yuuri can’t see his face to figure out if he’s jealous or bitter or just stating facts.

That evening, they stop by the cell phone store for Yuuri’s SIM card. Dmitri greets Yuuri enthusiastically, much to Yuuri’s embarrassment and Victor’s amazement. The entire transaction takes ten minutes. They still don’t manage to leave for nearly an hour, stuffed with tea and poppyseed cake and blini. It’s a party at the cell phone store, and Yuuri has no idea how that happened. Victor seems just as befuddled, especially when people keep coming up to Yuuri and trying to speak in Mandarin or Thai or a language Yuuri thinks might be Vietnamese.

“You have friends,” says Victor, sounding surprised, as they walk home. It’s cold, but either Yuuri’s growing used to the weather, or he’s so full that he doesn’t notice it anywhere but his ears.

“What? No. I spent so much time trying to get a SIM card, I guess Dmitri recognizes me now,” explains Yuuri.

Victor throws an arm over Yuuri’s shoulder and kisses his temple, just under the folds of Yuuri’s knit hat. “We can invite him to your welcome party next month.”

“Vitya,” groans Yuuri, not even sure why he’s embarrassed.

Yuuri has to admit it’s a relief to be able to check his email and messages throughout the day. There’s something comforting about looking at his phone after a hard session in the weight room and seeing a string of emojis from Phichit, or glancing at Instagram after ballet and finding Mari’s slightly blurred picture of Hiroko and Toshiya, heads bent together as they giggle over something out of view.

Victor spends the next couple of days talking: either on the phone with Sergei, discussing music, or with Yakov and other coaches, discussing choreography. He doesn’t stop paying close attention to Yuuri during their skate time – but it’s obvious that he is back in the zone Yuuri recognizes from their final days in Hasetsu.

Victor is clearly doing something new, and it is consuming him.

Yuuri might have minded… but with Victor preoccupied, it’s less likely he’ll notice that Yuuri is preoccupied, too. It’s harder to find time away from Victor, especially since he isn’t staying late any longer – but there’s almost always thirty or forty-five minutes somewhere in the day when Victor is busy with a magazine interview, or when someone on the fifth floor needs a signature, or Svetlana demands that he put in a little extra time with the masseurs to make sure his old knee injury isn’t likely to give out anytime soon.

Yuuri gets used to seeing Sasha the minute after Victor turns the corner. They don’t even need to speak. Yuuri follows Sasha to whatever rink he’s procured, and their work together begins.

The stolen time and the faint feeling of guilt is almost worth it, when Yuuri remembers that at the end of every day, Victor is coming home with him. They settle into a routine so quickly, Yuuri has trouble remembering that it’s new at all. Victor walks Makkachin while Yuuri heats up dinner; they eat and talk about their days apart from figure skating: what ridiculous things Victor was asked by a sports reporter, or the new twist Magdalena has introduced into Yuuri’s Russian lessons.

Then it’s a little bit of horrible television, in either Russian or English or a language neither of them know so that they can both make wildly inappropriate guesses as to what’s happening.

Every evening ends with them falling into bed together, giggling and yawning and protesting that they’re not too tired for love-making. Yuuri doesn’t even mind when Victor falls asleep before they get very far, because while the bags under his eyes are lighter, he still thinks of the weeks where Victor barely slept at all. Better to end with a whimper and not an ambulance.

He kisses Victor’s forehead, brushing the hair back, before slipping from the bed and going to brush his teeth, check that the door is firmly locked, and that every light is switched off.

When he finally slips back under the blankets, Victor turns toward him, never opening his eyes but nuzzling in the same spot on Yuuri’s neck every time. His voice is a mumble into Yuuri’s skin. “Sorry, _solnyshko_.”

“Make it up to me with another gold,” says Yuuri, and settles in to sleep.

*

The rink is empty on Saturday.

Yuuri’s grown accustomed to the sounds of laughter and metal on ice when he and Victor walk into the rink for practice. Yurio is almost always there before the rest of them, the first of his two or three water bottles half empty. Mila is on time, every time, but she waits for Yuuri so they can warm up together, while Victor settles into his own head nearby.

When Yuuri steps into the rink on Saturday morning, however, it’s quiet. The only sound is the echoing of the door slamming behind them, the clatter of Victor’s water bottles being dropped on the table by the boards.

“Uh, Victor? Where is everyone?” asks Yuuri, glancing around. Half the rink is still shrouded in darkness, with only the safety lights providing a dull glow.

“On their way to Czechoslovakia,” says Victor briskly. “Turn on the lights, there’s switches to the right of the door.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri. The switches are oversized toggles; the loud _clank_ ing sound they make when the powerful overhead lights switch on is completely out of proportion.

“Not everyone will have gone,” Victor continues. “Yakov usually takes at least one other coach, because if he doesn’t have a buffer between himself and Eteri, the entirety of Eastern Europe will be in flames before Tuesday.”

Yuuri sits down to stretch. It feels strange without Mila next to him, ready to discuss her latest conquest on the hockey line-up.

“I think an easy day today,” muses Victor. “The hockey team usually takes over the rink while we’re away. Perhaps a workout, and then we can swim in the afternoon? I packed our swimsuits.”

“Sure,” says Yuuri, leaning down and feeling the burn in the backs of his thighs. Victor does a few perfunctory stretches nearby, before hopping up and going to mess with the speaker system.

“Yuuri, what music do you want? Since no one else is here, we can play whatever we like.”

“Anything, I don’t mind,” Yuuri calls back. Within minutes, there’s music bouncing off the ice and walls, peppy and ridiculous and completely _not_ what Yuuri was expecting.

Yuuri stops stretching and just _stares_.

“Vitya,” he says slowly, “why are you playing _The Village People_?”

“Uh-uh!” says Victor, wagging his finger at Yuuri. “I’m your coach today. _Vitya_ is for the bedroom. Unless you’re trying to tell me you have certain reactions to this type of music.”

Yuuri shrieks. “No! _No_! I mean… no!”

Victor sighs. “Oh well. It’s very good for dancing, at least. Maybe I could use it for our exhibition skate next year.”

Yuuri pictures skating to the completely ridiculous party music playing, and tries not to burst into flame. “Wait… _our_ exhibition skate?”

“Yuuuuri,” chides Victor, sitting on the bench next to Yuuri. “As if I have any intention of skating in an exhibition without you again.”

Yuuri’s cheeks warm up anyway. “Oh.”

Victor grins. “Good. Then maybe you can explain: what is the Y.M.C.A., and why exactly do young men want to go there?”

Yuuri sputters, chokes, and jumps up to his feet. “Okay! All stretched out, I’m going to skate now!”

Victor’s laughter follows him, but Yuuri’s cheeks are burning too brightly to give Victor the satisfaction of looking at him. He’s halfway around the rink before he thinks of what would have been the best response _ever_ , but by then, the moment’s gone.

“I think you should run through the variations of Eros this morning,” says Victor cheerfully as he glides out onto the ice behind Yuuri. “Take advantage of having the ice to ourselves.”

“I thought maybe you’d want to go through your free skate for the same reason.”

“No, it’s more important that we make sure your routines are muscle memory,” says Victor, brushing off the suggestion as easily as if Yuuri had suggested stopping for coffee first. “There’s only three weeks before the Four Continents, and Yura tells me that Otabek is determined to be on the podium. Apart from JJ, he’s going to be your strongest opponent, you should be ready for him.”

“Don’t tell me you’re using Yurio as a _spy_.”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t even need Yura to tell me this, it’s obvious Otabek has a vendetta against JJ now.”

“So the idea is he focuses on JJ and leaves the way clear for me?”

“JJ still has more technical points than you do, unless you use the most difficult of your variations. As much improvement as you’ve shown in the last few months, I still question whether or not you’d be able to complete the full program at that level without killing yourself.”

“I’d be insulted if I didn’t agree,” says Yuuri wryly.

“I have certain stakes in you not killing yourself,” says Victor. “Necrophilia has never really been something I’ve wanted to try.”

“Thanks,” says Yuuri.

Victor’s attention wavers for a moment. Yuuri isn’t sure why until Victor speaks again. “Sasha, what are you doing here?”

Yuuri looks over his shoulder as the heavy doors leading to the locker room slam shut. Sure enough, there’s the jump coach walking in, carrying a large mug of what is undoubtedly his customary morning tea. Yuuri can already smell the raspberry jam Sasha uses to sweeten it.

“You’re practicing, aren’t you?” says Sasha.

“Yuuri is practicing,” says Victor shortly. “I’m going to coach him.”

“Then I’ll just observe,” says Sasha. He sits at the top of the benches, where he can see the entire rink easily.

Victor makes a disgruntled noise before turning back to Yuuri. “Ignore him.”

Yuuri nods briefly and hopes Victor doesn’t see the sudden nervousness in his eyes. “Of course.”

“Start with the safety, and then we’ll go from there. Just mark the jumps for now. No need to overextend yourself just yet,” says Victor.

Yuuri frowns. _Okay, that makes some sense, but…_ “This isn’t because Sasha’s here, is it?” he asks, a bit accusatory.

“Of course not,” says Victor, unconcerned. “We’re working on choreography and presentation this morning, not your jumps. We’ll save those for when you run the most difficult program.”

“Right,” says Yuuri as Victor skates to where he’s not in the way. Yuuri glides to center ice and settling into his starting position. “That way when I kill myself, I go out with a bang.”

“That’s the spirit!” says Victor brightly.

Skating with only Victor in attendance is one thing; skating with Sasha there too, however, is something else. It’s a lot harder to ignore Sasha than Yuuri would have thought, because he knows the man is watching every single move with laser-like focus.

Victor knows it too, given the way that he’s watching equally closely, his mouth a thin line every time Yuuri approaches another placeholder for a flip or Lutz or quad. Yuuri’s performed in front of thousands of people – millions, if he counts television audiences – but somehow, the combination of these two men feels so, _so_ much worse.

Frankly, the fact that he’s able to complete any element at _all_ ought to be considered a minor miracle – and this is his _safety_ , which includes three jumps so solid that he jumps his triple axel from pure reflex before he can stop himself.  Victor’s groaning laugh echoes across the ice, and Yuuri wants to kick himself – but he’s landed it with the most success in both practice and competition. This is the program that will land him securely in the top five after the first day, with the best chance of finishing on the podium.

Yuuri already knows: he’s not going to skate this program when the time comes. Not if JJ and Otabek are there, too.

He finishes, breaths steady but not out of control. Sasha’s voice floats across the ice.

“The axel could be higher.”

“Yes, thank you,” calls Victor, irritated, as he skates up to Yuuri. “How do you feel?”

“Great. I like the mid-level skate better, though. This one feels almost boring now.”

Victor smiles. “I hoped you’d say that, since that’s the one I think you should skate in Gangneung. Take a few minutes and then let’s see it. I want to try something with the step sequence.”

“ _Hai_ ,” says Yuuri, and skates over to where he’s left his water.

He realizes as soon as he’s drinking that he’s very, very close to Sasha on the benches.

“Your axel—” says Sasha, under his breath.

“Later,” says Yuuri firmly, and turns his back on Sasha.

_Shut up, shut up, shut up!_ Yuuri thinks desperately. _Don’t let Victor see you coaching me._

To his relief, Sasha doesn’t say anything else.

_He’s right, though. That axel could have been higher, and considering how easy that program feels to me now, it really should have been. Just because it’s my safety doesn’t mean I have to skate it that way._

Victor is working on something near center ice – a step sequence that Yuuri doesn’t recognize. He watches for a moment, and then sets the water bottle down and skates back out to join him.

“That looked good,” he says, and Victor looks up from his feet, blushing. “Is it mine or yours?”

“Mine,” admits Victor. “Just playing with the idea.”

“You can keep playing. I can do something else.”

“No, let’s keep going,” says Victor, moving away. “No jumps this time. Show me how you’re going to seduce Gangneung.”

“Lucky Gangneung,” says Sasha from the side. Victor scowls but says nothing while Yuuri gets into his starting position again.

_Okay. This is the new step sequence, and the harder spins. Arms raised for the jump combo – but I’m marking those. It’s a little bit of a challenge, putting them all together, but I’ve done them all in practice separately. I can do this!_

_…Sasha’s right. I can get that axel higher. I know Victor said no jumps, but… I feel good right now. Sasha never sees the whole program, not like this. I want to know what he’s going to think of it. It’s so hard to find time away from Victor when Sasha can work with me. I need him to see what I can do, if he’s going to help me get to where I need to be._

As much as Yuuri likes the old arrangement – what they’re now calling his “safety” – he likes this new arrangement almost better. It’s a relief to be able to skate something new.

_I always got so bored skating the same program – I wonder why Celestino never challenged me like Victor is doing? Increasing difficulty, making me refine and revise? Maybe because I was still in school? I should ask Phichit if he’s doing this, too._

The new step sequences come almost naturally. Yuuri stumbles as he nearly glides into the old version, but he picks up the new choreography almost instantly and by the time he’s preparing to mark the triple axel, he’s back on point.

He glances at Victor – and sees Sasha just behind him.

_I can do it. I know I can._

_They know I can._

He lands the axel perfectly.

_I think that was higher!_

“You’re very disobedient, Yuuri!” shouts Victor gleefully. Yuuri grins.

_Guess so! What’s that idiom about pennies and pounds?_

The mid-level skate involves Tanos for both jumps in his combination. Yuuri doesn’t quite get his arm up all the way on the first of the jump combination, but it’s better on the second half.

“Yuuuuri!” Victor’s chastising voice floats across the ice, but Yuuri flashes him as saucy a look as he can manage between his spins. From the way Victor laughs, he knows he’s forgiven.

_Just the quad flip now… Victor can only kill me the once_ ….

Yuuri almost lands it. His hand touches the ice again, but only just. When Yuuri comes to his final pose, he’s breathing hard and thoroughly annoyed with himself.

“I _did_ say no jumps,” says Victor mildly as he skates out to Yuuri. “In English, even.”

“Did you? It’s so echoey in here,” says Yuuri innocently.

Victor snorts. “What were you thinking about at the beginning?”

_Something I can’t tell you_ , thinks Yuuri.

“How much I like this new program,” he says, which at least is true.

Victor nods. “We’ll work on it more. Do you think you can do the final variation?”

“Without killing myself? Probably not.”

“Great! Get some water and we’ll try it.”

“Are you doing variations of your skates?” blurts out Yuuri as Victor starts to skate away.

Victor’s back goes stiff. Yuuri wants to kick himself.

“Of course,” says Victor. His voice is so cheerful that it makes Yuuri wish he could see Victor’s face. “Sasha, I see you taking notes! Why are you taking notes?”

“Nothing to do with you,” Sasha calls back. “I do have other students, you know!”

_He could at least not be so obvious about it_ , thinks Yuuri, almost angry. _And look at Victor – he’s got to suspect something’s up. Why else would Sasha still be sitting there, if not to watch me?!?_

Victor stays close to Yuuri as he drinks his water, which makes Yuuri so uncomfortable that he ends up spilling water down his shirt. Sasha at least doesn’t talk to him this time; instead, he concentrates on the notepads he’s pulled out of his case, flipping back and forth between the pages as if he’s comparing things.

“Are you going to watch the Championships?” Sasha asks casually, without looking up.

“Of course,” says Victor. “I promised Mila.”

“You’re welcome to join us, since you’re one of the coaching staff now,” says Sasha. “We’ll be in viewing room two. Yuuri’s welcome, too, of course. There’s always a few spouses or children there.”

Victor goes still, his jaw a line of tension.

_He doesn’t look very happy with the invitation. I wonder why not – this is something he’s wanted, to be taken seriously by the other coaches. Being invited to watch the competition with them – I would think that’s a pretty solid vote of approval._

“That’s… very good of you to invite me,” Victor says. He doesn’t sound nearly as combative as he has so far when speaking to Sasha. “But I think we will watch from home.”

“Suit yourself,” says Sasha. He doesn’t sound the least bit concerned about Victor’s rejection, even though Victor isn’t any less tense than he was before. “Yuuri, your triple axel was better the second time.”

“Thanks,” says Yuuri automatically, and then sets down his water bottle a little harder than he probably should have done. “I’m going to run the combination before I start.”

“Good idea,” says Victor. Yuuri gives him a brief smile before skating as fast as he can go.

_And I thought Celestino and Victor getting drunk and comparing notes about my skating style was uncomfortable_ , he thinks wryly.

_One thing’s for sure – I can’t let Victor find out that Sasha really is helping me. It might not kill him – but it’d break his heart._

*

Victor is watching Yuuri work on his ‘Tanos and Rippons – and definitely not day-dreaming about his own free skate choreography – when Sasha comes to stand behind the boards next to him.

“He’s a good student,” says Sasha. “He reminds me of you.”

The same thought’s occurred to Victor, once in a while. To hear Sasha confirm it feels slimy, like he’s just invited Sasha into their bedroom to witness their private time. “I don’t think anyone would ever have mistaken me for a good student,” says Victor stiffly.

“I meant that he’ll do what it takes to succeed. Even when it hurts.” Sasha closes his folders and leans closer to Victor. “This isn’t playtime, Victor. You know that, right?”

Victor’s blood simmers. He wants to glare at Sasha, but he keeps his eyes focused on Yuuri. “Is that what you all thought?”

“You know it was. Poor little Vitya, so bored with his victories. Ageing out of his sport and aware that his time is running out, so he disappears to the first shiny thing to present itself.”

Out on the ice, Yuuri launches himself into the air. One arm is raised in a perfect curve, though his fingers are closer to being clenched than artfully spread. When he lands, his skates scrape noisily against the ice.

“Yuuri’s not a shiny thing, he’s a person,” says Victor sharply.

Yuuri goes into the second jump of his sequence. The Rippon is much rougher; it looks less artistic than like a young kid flinging his arms over his head as he jumps into a pool of water.

“You figured that out. That’s why you’re not playing anymore,” says Sasha.

Victor glares at him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Sasha closes his notebook. “It’s interesting, watching you with him. I thought you would be more like Yakov, but you’re not quite as… abrasive.”

Victor’s not sure it’s a compliment. “Yuuri requires a different sort of coaching style. That’s why I’m continuing to supervise him here, instead of handing him over to Yakov.”

“It would be easier on you,” says Sasha. “Allow you more time to focus on your own training.”

“But not good for Yuuri.”

“No. I can see that.” Sasha pauses. “There are coaches other than Yakov.”

“No,” says Victor sharply.

Sasha doesn’t say anything for a long moment; he just looks at Victor, perhaps waiting for Victor to elaborate.

When Victor doesn’t say anything, he continues. “You could bring him to the viewing with you. It’s all right. Or are you afraid we’ll start to coach him directly under your nose?”

“I don’t know why you’re sitting here,” snaps Victor. “Unless Yakov sent you to spy on my coaching style with Yuuri.”

“That too. But mostly because you’re supposed to be skating, Victor,” says Sasha, harshly. “Variations on Yuuri’s skates? That’s window dressing. Don’t tell me you intend to use that sugar-infested free skate of yours at Worlds. I know there’s something else on your mind.”

Victor’s skin prickles with anger, and it’s all he can do to keep the little germ of an idea he’s been nourishing from bursting out and choking Sasha on the spot. “Yes. There’s something.”

“Good. That’s a start.” Sasha leans in for the kill. “Are you going to have the jumps to skate it?”

Victor wants to swear at him, but he hears Yuuri jump his combination again. _Schlick – schlick_ , go his skates as they hit the ice.

“Interesting combination,” muses Sasha, rubbing his chin. “Quad-triple, Tano and Rippon? He certainly has the power for it. It almost makes me wonder if he could do more.”

Victor’s skin prickles. But he’ll be damned if he gives Sasha any more satisfaction. “What _more_ is there to do? A quad axel? A quad quad?”

“It’s a thought,” says Sasha. “Would you even know how to coach a student when it comes to something you yourself can’t do?”

Victor releases his breath. “I can’t do Rippons. I think I’m doing well enough.”

“So far, yes. But will he land them when it counts? And if he’s skating against you – are you going to make _sure_ it counts?”

The anger comes over Victor so swiftly that for a moment, Victor can’t even think. _Does he actually think I would go through all of this just to deliberately lose?_

Sasha’s still looking at him, still waiting for an answer. Victor puts on his best pleasant, friendly, slightly amused tone, complete with the smile that’s worked on dozens of journalists over the years. Sasha will recognize its illegitimacy – but Victor thinks that in this case, it will work in his favor.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” he says.

His hands shake as he skates out to Yuuri, and there's an angry bubble in his chest that could easily creep into whatever he’s going to say next. Yuuri’s eyes are bright, even as his forehead begins to crease as he looks at Victor.

As if Yuuri knows, just by looking, that Victor’s angry.

_I have to get out of here_ , thinks Victor, because the discontent in his chest isn’t going to go away as long as Sasha is hounding them, and as far as Victor knows, Sasha has nothing else to do.

Not today, anyway. Come Monday he’ll be too busy with other duties, scouting younger skaters who aren’t competing this year but may in the future prove themselves talented enough for Yakov’s team, or reviewing the hundreds of hours of footage from previous events in order to determine who they’ll need to study as future competitors.

_He’ll have studied Yuuri,_ Victor realizes. _Of everyone in this rink, Sasha’s probably seen Yuuri skate more than anyone. Maybe even more than me._

And _that’s_ the most disquieting idea of all. Victor can’t stand the thought of allowing Sasha to see Yuuri skate for another minute.

That isn’t the only thing Victor realizes as he glides to a stop next to Yuuri.

“Change of plan,” he says, the idea still forming in his mind.

Because he has spent the last three weeks – no, _six_ weeks, every minute since returning to Hasetsu from Barcelona – training and skating and practicing and planning and preparing for a competition that only now, in hindsight, he realizes he never had a chance of attending.

_I told myself I’d never do that again – become the skater at the expense of the man. But I left Yuuri alone and what for?_

_I can’t change what I did. But I can still make this right._

Yuuri blinks in surprise. “Eh?”

“We can play hockey, what do you think? Yakov’s not here to shout at us. Let’s go see Saint Petersburg properly.”

Yuuri stares at him for a moment before answering. “ _Hooky_. We’re playing _hooky_.”

“That’s what I said!”

“Not really,” says Yuuri. He still sounds cautious.

Victor’s not going to let him stagnate. He takes Yuuri by the hand and drags him off the ice.

“Come on, Yuuri!” he sings. “You’ve never been to Saint Petersburg before, and I want to go sight-seeing with you. Leave it all to me.”

The reference to their sightseeing tour of Barcelona is enough to make Yuuri give in as he laughs. “All right.”

*

It’s the telecast tour of Saint Petersburg, redux.

Only this time there isn’t a film crew behind them, trying to capture every moment, and this time, they’re not rushing off their feet trying to cram an entire city into a four-hour span.

They have lunch in a little café around the corner from Yubileyny. The place is jam-packed with other athletes playing hooky, resulting in a near-festival atmosphere. The servers know Victor on sight and greet them both with wide smiles and cheerful welcomes.

“Best ice cream in the city,” Victor promises Yuuri, who’s enviously watching a table full of tiny girls devour what has to be the largest sundae he’s ever seen. “We probably shouldn’t have come here, if we’re really playing hooky. I spent so much time here when I was still in school, I think they named a table for me. It was always the first place Yakov looked when no one could find me.”

“Did you run away a lot?” asks Yuuri, curious. He might have read every word written about Victor’s life, but little of it was so personal.

“It wasn’t exactly running away,” Victor corrects him, but then frowns, wrinkling his nose in thought. “Just trying to get away from the same people and same air and same… everything.”

Yuuri looks pointedly around at the other tables. Nearly every single one is filled with now-familiar faces from the complex.

“Eventually I had to expand into running away to other countries. Japan, for instance,” continues Victor solemnly.

Yuuri laughs. “And even then, you couldn’t get away from the ice.”

“Why do you think I spent so much time in the onsen?”

Yuuri rests his chin on his hand. “You weren’t _unhappy_ , though, were you? Every picture I ever saw of you, you’re either completely focused or laughing.”

“I was too busy to be unhappy,” says Victor. “Are you?”

Yuuri’s heart gives a strange jump in his chest. “Too busy?”

“Unhappy,” clarifies Victor. He leans forward and slides his hands into Yuuri’s. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone the last few weeks.”

The apology stings, for some reason. Yuuri’s not sure why. “You did what you had to do,” he says evenly, squeezing Victor’s hands. “I understand. It’s okay.”

“Yuuri. You couldn’t even call home,” Victor chides him.

“ _That’s_ a stretch. I could call home. I _did_ , when I was in your apartment.”

“ _Our_ apartment.”

“Right,” says Yuuri with a sheepish smile. “I’m fine, Vitya. Don’t worry about me. And anyway – that’s all done now, right? No more long days, no more Sundays?”

He _hates_ the sound of hope in his voice – it’s so pleading, needy, _dependent_. Everything Yuuri’s been telling himself all along that he shouldn’t be.

But Victor just smiles warmly back at him. “All done,” he promises, and lifts his hands up to kiss Yuuri’s knuckles, one hand after the other.

There’s a hooting cheer from the rest of the restaurant. Nearly every single person is watching them and applauding as they laugh. Yuuri’s face goes bright pink and he ducks his face down to the table, trying to hide behind his forearms.

But Victor stands grandly and takes a deep bow.

“Who needs Europeans anyway!” he says, to another round of laughter and applause. Yuuri looks up from his arms when he sits back down again.

“This is you being inconspicuous,” says Yuuri, amused.

“Ah, no one notices me at all,” says Victor cheerfully, just as a teenaged boy, all arms and legs and pimples and nerves, approaches the table. He’s clutching a napkin and a pen.

“ _Avtograf_?” says Victor. It’s not a Russian word Yuuri’s officially learned, but it’s not hard to guess the translation. “Sure!”

“ _Nyet_ ,” says the boy, pulling the napkin back from Victor’s outstretched hand.

He turns and shoves it at Yuuri. “Please. _Oh-nag-gee-shee_ …”

The boy stumbles over the word, clearly a well-intentioned victim of Google Translate and unable to remember the rest. Yuuri catches sight of Victor’s shocked face just as it devolves into utter _delight_.

It’s been so long since Yuuri’s seen that look on Victor’s face. The boy could ask Yuuri to do a rhumba on the table; Yuuri’s so grateful he might actually do it. It’s much easier to smile warmly at him instead.

“ _Da_ ,” he says. It’s hard not to rip the napkin with the pen, but he does his best, signing his name in first katana, then English, and finally Cyrillic.

The boy’s eyes are wide and bright, bright green. “ _Spasibo_ ,” he breathes, clutching his napkin.

“Valery,” says Victor, still amused. The boy jumps a bit and goes very still. Victor continues in Russian, but Yuuri catches the skating terms anyway, enough to know that Victor’s offering advice for the boy’s next practice session.

Valery nods his head frantically, and then scampers back to a table on the far side of the restaurant, where he’s greeted by a group of teenagers with slaps on the back.

“Do you know him?” Yuuri asks, leaning toward Victor.

“There’s always half a dozen novices and juniors on Yakov’s radar,” says Victor. “Valery’s attended his summer camp the last three years. He shouldn’t be so shocked that I remember his name.”

“Huh.” Yuuri can’t see Valery any more, but he can see the boy’s table passing something around. “Probably already has your autograph, then.”

Victor makes a face at him, and Yuuri just laughs.

*

The Hermitage is _huge_. Room after room after room with tremendous and incredible pieces of art. Yuuri’s sure they’ve been walking for hours and seen every item in the entire place twice over when Victor finally leads them to a bench in a main hall, set back just enough that they can sit mostly unobserved and watch everyone going by. There are families speaking Russian and French and English and German and languages Yuuri can’t quite place. There’s teenagers who look endlessly bored while their teachers lecture them, and people who spend more time examining their maps and guides than looking at the art.

“I haven’t been here in years,” says Victor cheerfully, rubbing his calves. “I forgot how much walking it involves.”

“What a good thing we have nice, normal desk jobs the rest of the week,” agrees Yuuri.

Most of the other patrons have ignored them, but there’s a few who have clearly recognized Victor. They smile knowingly as they try their best to ignore them. The few times when a patron looks as if they’re dying to come up and ask for an autograph, some teenager or small child inevitably runs in between them, getting in their way and managing to allow Yuuri and Victor to escape unscathed.

Yuuri would be grateful… except for the teenagers. He doesn’t _think_ any of them are his stalkers – none of the boys sport purple hair, for one thing – but the coats worn by all the girls are familiar in a way that makes Yuuri’s stomach twist. He hasn’t seen the school group in _every_ room, but a dozen of them are scattered around the lobby now, waiting for the rest of their classmates to arrive. They glance up every few minutes, as if checking to see if Yuuri and Victor are still there.

_Stop being paranoid_ , Yuuri scolds himself. When the particularly large American tour group comes through and blocks the teenagers’ view, Yuuri takes his chance.

“Are you getting hungry?” he asks Victor.

“A bit,” says Victor, stretching out his legs and completely oblivious to anything. “I think we’ve had enough culture for the day.”

They manage to limp out and find a cab – “We can’t use Pavel if we’re playing hooky, Yuuri” – which takes them to Duo for dinner. They sit and share a bottle of wine and Victor plies Yuuri with every single one of his favorite Russian foods: cherry vreniki with sour cream and black bread slathered in butter and salt; a rich borscht which Yuuri doesn’t much like and an okroshka he does; chicken cutlets that _almost_ rival katsudon and stroganoff that Yuuri decides he’ll marry instead of Victor.

“Yuuuuuuri,” complains Victor. “What could stroganoff give you that I can’t?”

“Mushrooms,” says Yuuri, deftly stealing another forkful from Victor’s plate.

They finish the wine, though they don’t clean their plates, and Yuuri’s sure that Victor will have to roll him up to his apartment. It’s an easy walk, their hands linked together. When they pass under the streetlights, Yuuri can see their breath fogged in the air. It’s cold, but the wine and the food are keeping Yuuri warm enough.

“Yuuri.”

Victor’s voice is quiet in the soft night. Saint Petersburg isn’t as sleepy as Hasetsu – but the street they’re on isn’t busy, and the sounds of the city are distant. Yuuri’s hazy with food and alcohol; everything but the feel of Victor next to him, and the comfortable chill on is nose, seems very far away.

“Hmm?”

“It’s… it’s good, isn’t it? Training here. I know it’s very different from in Hasetsu…”

“Of course it is. Good, I mean. I don’t mind it being different. I _expected_ it to be different.”

Victor’s quiet – the sort of quiet that means he’s thinking. Yuuri hazards a glance; Victor’s mouth is thin, his shoulders tight, his eyes focused squarely on the pavement in front of them.

_As if he doesn’t believe me._

“Vitya,” says Yuuri. He stops walking, and waits until Victor’s stopped too, looking at him expectantly. “Training here, with you, it’s… you know what I dreamed about, when I was just starting to attend international competitions in Juniors? I’d sit in class and think about what might happen if one of the Russian coaches approached me and wanted to take me on. Not Yakov – never Yakov, because I’m not that lucky – but _someone_. They’d whisk me off to Russia and then I’d end up training near you.”

Victor smiles, clearly caught up in Yuuri’s daydream. “And we’d all wonder about the little Japanese kid, and sneak in to watch you practice to figure out if you were any good or not.”

“No fewer times than I’d sneak in to see you,” agrees Yuuri. “I’d try to get a glimpse of you every day.”

“I’d notice, but pretend I didn’t.”

“We’d meet somehow. I could never decide _how_ …”

“A broken lace,” suggests Victor. “Or maybe you’d push the door open while I was standing there and it’d slam into my head.”

Yuuri laughs. “I’d be horrified. Practically speechless.”

“But so cute I’d have to forgive you immediately and make you take me to the nurse on duty.”

 “You’d help me with my jumps.”

“You’d help me with my step sequences.”

“And we’d find ways to practice together, and when I made my Senior debut – you’d be there, cheering for me on the side.”

Victor’s eyes are soft. “The only part I don’t like about your dream is having to wait for you to be old enough to fall in love with me.”

Yuuri clutches the lapels of Victor’s coat. “Don’t be stupid. I fell for you the minute I slammed the door into your head.”

“Good,” says Victor. “Because I fell for you the moment you helped me up from the floor.”

It’s a cold kiss – but Victor’s tongue is warm and soft. It’s no less sweet for having known each other less than a year than for half their lives.

“The point is,” says Yuuri, breaking the kiss, “I have to pinch myself every morning because I can’t believe that I’m not going to open my eyes and find myself sitting in geometry class back in Hasetsu.”

Victor’s eyes are still closed; there’s still a half smile on his face. The way he’s holding tight to Yuuri’s elbows makes Yuuri think that he’s almost afraid to let go, that Victor can’t quite believe that Yuuri’s _there_ , that Yuuri’s _real_ and not just a figment of the daydream they’ve played with.

“Vitya?” whispers Yuuri, growing worried.

“Let’s go home,” says Victor, so low and urgent and needy that Yuuri doesn’t hesitate to brush his lips against Victor’s again. It’s not a kiss – Victor doesn’t respond in time – but reassurance.

Maybe in another daydream, they have been friends for all their lives before finding each other as lovers. Maybe there’s a daydream in which they’re rivals first. Or where Yuuri’s the one coaching Victor.

It doesn’t matter – Yuuri’s sure of that. Because in every daydream, they’ll always end up _here_ , standing on a frozen Saint Petersburg street with their lips still swollen from kisses.

_Home_ , Victor says. Yuuri knows he means, _Bed_.

Yuuri’s good with that translation.

“Yes,” says Yuuri, his heart thudding heavily in his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Avtograf (Russian) – Autograph


	24. ...The Mice Continue to Play

** Chapter Twenty-four: The Mice Continue to Play **

They sleep so late on Sunday that Yuuri only wakes when Makkachin starts nosing at his hand, which hangs just above the carpet. He pushes himself up, blinking at the dim ring of light around the black-out curtains. Despite having polished off a bottle of wine with dinner the night before, his head only aches a little bit; maybe sixteen glasses of champagne are enough to ward off hangovers for the rest of his life.

Victor moves next to him, groaning as he wakes up.

“What time is it?” gasps Victor, a perfect imitation of someone dying.

“Time Makkachin went on her walk,” says Yuuri. “I can go.”

Victor doesn’t protest. Yuuri quickly uses the bathroom, dresses in every warm thing he can get his hands on, and is out of the apartment with Makkachin before he’s even fully awake. It’s not until he’s in the lobby that he remembers.

_I’m being followed._

Yuuri’s blood runs cold.

It’s not Dmitri Ivanovich on the door, but the man smiles at Yuuri anyway and holds the door open for him. Yuuri manages a smile and a quiet “ _Dobroy utro_ ,” and then he’s out on the pavement.

The clouded sky is still streaked with orange and red of sunrise. Makkachin doesn’t hesitate; she has her routine and she knows it. All Yuuri has to do is hold her leash tightly and follow.

_At least she looks heavier than she is,_ he tells himself while Makkachin strains at the leash, desperate to _go_. He tries to look as comfortable and confident as he doesn’t feel.

“Okay, Makka,” he tells the dog, who lets out a gentle _woof_ in response.

It’s answered by another _woof_ – this time much deeper.

“Rasputin!” shouts a man behind Yuuri. The tell-tale sound of massive claws on the concrete pavement fills the air along with the huffs and grunts of a dog straining against his leash. “ _Rasputin, no!_ ”

The light brown dog is a blur. It races right up to Makkachin, already bracing herself against Yuuri’s leg. She bares her teeth and _snaps_ at the unfamiliar dog with more ferocity than Yuuri’s ever seen on anyone in his life. The other dog immediately yelps and backs off, but Yuuri’s heart is thumping so hard his hands shake as he tries to pull Makkachin away.

“Makkachin!” he yells. “Stop that!”

“Rasputin! Down! Heel! Stay!” yells the man. It’s not really necessary – Rasputin has laid down on the pavement, his leash puddled on the ground next to him. He holds his head low while looking up at Makkachin, who’s clearly still on guard.

The man gasps for breath when he finally catches up. He’s older than he sounds; there’s a paunch on his stomach and his hair is more salt than pepper. Rasputin’s escape clearly caught him by surprise, given the way his unbuttoned coat flaps at his sides, and there’s no sign of a hat or scarf. His face is red with exertion, and when he grabs Rasputin’s leash from the ground, he stays bent over, leaning his weight on his knees.

“You stupid overgrown beast of a dog,” says the man, winded. He’s speaking English with a British accent; it’s so incongruous that Yuuri still tries to translate it from Russian before he realizes what he’s doing. “I’m so very terribly sorry. I do hope your dog is all right?”

“I think so?” says Yuuri. Makkachin’s no longer growling or baring her teeth; in fact, she’s peering curiously at Rasputin, leaning close as if to give him a good sniff. “She snapped at Rasputin, but I don’t think she made contact. I’ve never seen her do that before.”

“I doubt she’s had the hellhound from Calcutta after her before,” says the man wryly.

“Did you catch him, Maks?” Another British accent, this time female. Yuuri looks up to see an older woman hurrying toward them. She’s bundled for the cold and carrying a hat and scarf in her hands that probably belong to the man holding Rasputin’s leash.

“Yes!” the man calls back, finally standing up straight.

“You dropped these,” the woman says, handing him the hat and scarf, before turning to Yuuri. “I am so very sorry. Is your dog all right?”

Yuuri looks to where Makkachin is cautiously sniffing at Rasputin’s muzzle. Their tails are wagging, though Rasputin’s is slightly more excited than Makkachin’s. “Looks like it.”

“I do love poodles,” gushes the woman. “Is it a she or a he?”

“She. Her name’s Makkachin.”

“What a lovely name! This is Rasputin.”

“Never has a name been so apt,” grumbles Maks. His scarf is tucked into his fastened coat, and his hat is back on his head. “Maksim Aliyev. This is my wife, Livia.”

“Katsuki Yuuri,” says Yuuri. “Er – Yuuri Katsuki.”

“So lovely to meet you, Mr. Katsuki,” says Livia. “Oh, look! They’re making friends now.”

Makkachin and Rasputin are circling each other, noses under each other’s tails. Yuuri’s face start burning; it’s all he can do not to pull Makkachin away out of sheer embarrassment.

“Makkachin!” he hisses, horrified.

“Oh, no, dear, it’s fine,” Livia assures him. “They can hardly shake paws, now can they?”

Rasputin makes as if he’s about to try to mount Makkachin, only to be deterred when Maks yanks on his leash. “Oh for – _you’re fixed, you idiot_.”

“So’s Makkachin,” says Yuuri quickly.

“Well,” says Livia brightly. “They can still have a good time.”

Yuuri can’t speak. He’s pretty sure his mouth is flapping like a fish, but he honestly has no idea what to say.

“I think you’ve gone and shocked him, Livia,” Maks tells his wife.

“Oh, he knows,” says Livia airily. “He has a boyfriend of his own, doesn’t he?”

“Ah,” stammers Yuuri.

“We live in your building, dear,” Livia tells him. “Fifth floor. I’ve seen you come in and out with him. Lovely silver-haired gentleman. I do love a May-December romance.”

“Um,” stammers Yuuri. “Victor’s not actually that much older than me.”

“Oh!” says Livia. “You’ve aged very well, dear.”

Maks groans and covers his face. “ _Livia_.” He lowers his hand and looks apologetically at Yuuri. “I’m sorry. She’s half American.”

Yuuri nods as if that explains everything – which it might actually do, he spent five years surrounded by clueless and well-meaning Americans – and out of sheer inability to look either of them in the eye, looks down at the dogs. Makkachin and Rasputin seem to have made up whatever their initial dispute had been, and are now sitting next to each other, pressed fairly close. Rasputin’s tongue is hanging out the side of his oversized mouth as he looks down at Makkachin with what Yuuri could swear is the same expression Victor sometimes wears when looking at him.

“Oh no,” says Yuuri, alarmed.

Livia claps her hands together. “Oh! Maks, look! They’re in love!”

Maks sighs. “Well. At least we know there won’t be puppies.”

“Makkachin’s too old for puppies, anyway,” says Yuuri. “She’s almost sixteen.”

Maks nods sagely. “Rasputin’s three.”

“I knew there was a May-December romance somewhere,” says Livia, satisfied.

*

In the end, Yuuri walks with them around the block. He listens more than he speaks, but since Livia seems inclined to speak more than she listens, that’s all right. Maks, on the other hand, takes in everything Yuuri doesn’t say – including the fact that Yuuri seems relieved to have the company. He’s fairly sure they’re not being followed – but then again, Rasputin is a far scarier beast than Makkachin, even if he does look like the most love-sick dog in canine history.

“Just moved here, I imagine,” says Maks while Livia sits on a nearby bench, loving each dog in turn. “First time in a big city?”

“Not exactly,” says Yuuri. “I lived in Detroit for five years.”

Maks is visibly startled. “Oh, I say. That _is_ a big city. I’m sorry, you seemed rather nervous before. I assumed—”

“It’s fine. I… I guess I’m having more trouble adjusting to Russia than I thought,” admits Yuuri.

Maks hums. “Do you speak the language?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I’m learning.”

“That should help. I’d be happy to serve as a conversation partner, if you’d like. Native speaker,” explains Maks. “My mother was British, I’ve spoken both English and Russian since I was two. We could work out a trade: I’ve been wanting a conversation partner for Japanese, and they’re bloody thin on the ground here.”

Yuuri’s eyes brighten. “You speak Japanese?”

“ _Hai_ ,” confirms Maks. The familiar tones are the best thing Yuuri’s heard all week. Yuuri breaks into a grin.

“I’d like that,” he says. He’s tempted to switch to Japanese, but it wouldn’t do to embarrass Maksim, if his vocabulary doesn’t extend beyond basic pleasantries.

“Excellent,” says Maks, satisfied. “Livia! I see you sneaking those dogs treats.”

Livia hops up to her feet and comes back to them, the dogs following her obediently. “Honestly, what’s the point of having dogs if you can’t spoil them?”

“And she wonders why Rasputin is a terror,” says Maks.

By the time they return to the building, Yuuri and Maks have made plans for a Japanese breakfast conversation the following weekend, and Livia has promised Yuuri plates of cookies, for both himself and his partner and Makkachin. They live two floors below Victor’s apartment, and when the elevator doors close behind them, Yuuri breathes a sigh of relief to be back by himself, even as he’s feeling somewhat more buoyant with the pleasant and unassuming company.

Makkachin whines in the back of her throat, looking longingly at the door where Rasputin has disappeared.

“Really?” asks Yuuri, amused. “I don’t know if Vitya’s going to approve of him.”

The delicious smells hit Yuuri as soon as he steps into the apartment. The table is set for two, with placemats and napkins and actual china. There’s even candles. Yuuri can’t remember even _seeing_ candles, but there they sit, right in between the container of sour cream, the jar of black sesame spread, and a plate heaping with sausages.

“Vitya?” Yuuri calls out. “Are you making breakfast?”

“ _Syrniki_!” calls out Victor cheerfully. He appears from the kitchen bearing a plate. “I made sausages, too. Don’t tell your coach, okay?”

Yuuri chuckles. “Okay.”

The _syrniki_ are not quite as good as Hiroko’s rice cooker pancakes, but delicious all the same.

“So,” says Victor as they’re cleaning up the dishes, “I think Spilled Blood today, yes? It’s probably too cold for a boat tour of the Neva—”

“ _Probably?!?!_ ”

“—but there’s a few other museums that are very interesting. We’ll save the Summer Palace for the summer. Oh! And there’s a performance at the Mariinsky, I forgot to tell you. The Nutcracker. I can try to get tickets, but since we’re buying them so late, the seats may not be very good—”

“Yes,” says Yuuri, eyes wide.

Victor laughs. “All right. I can call the box office if you finish these?”

Yuuri doesn’t hesitate; he hip-checks Victor out of the way and starts scrubbing at the pan in the sink.

Less than an hour later, they’re on their way to the theater. According to Victor, it’s easier to take a taxi than it is to either drag his car out of the garage and then have to park it again, or trek to the nearest metro and take that instead.

“We could walk if it wasn’t for the cold,” says Victor.

“Or having walked the length of Russia at the Hermitage yesterday,” Yuuri teases.

The ride is ridiculously short, or at least it is until they approach the theatre, where traffic suddenly becomes a nightmare. Victor is happily chatting away in Russian to the driver, so Yuuri takes the moment to check his phone. He was never as attached to his phone in the same way Phichit was – but the sheer ability to be able to send and receive messages to his family and friends after so long being restricted to only reaching out in the early mornings or evenings has made him realize how nice it is.

Besides, he’s disproportionately excited about the ballet. The only thing grounding him is the response to the text he sent Minako just before they left, while Victor was still fixing his hair.

**Yuuri  
** We’re going to see the Nutcracker at the Mariinsky today.

**Minako-sensei  
** I want a complete assessment of the lead’s jumping style, including the approximate height and energy, and how you can translate that to the ice. Pay particular attention to arm placement and how it aligns with posture. Also note the chorus; if you and Victor are going to continue skating as pairs you need to observe others synchronizing their movements as well.

“We’re here,” says Victor. The taxi has finally pulled up to the curb; Yuuri can see people milling outside in a large, open-air square flanked by the sort of European-style building that could house anything from a grand palace to a completely boring office space. On the far end, however, is the grand façade of the main theater. It’s gorgeous and imposing, a blue-green birthday cake of a building with white edges.

“Wow,” whispers Yuuri.

Victor grins. “Let’s go.”

They pay the driver and join the crowd, most of whom are meandering on their way to the theater. Yuuri doesn’t mind the slow pace they’re forced to keep. It lets him gape at the building a little longer before they get inside.

Victor’s hand is warm around his. “I wonder if Minako ever danced here,” he muses aloud.

“Oh,” says Yuuri, remembering. “Minako-sensei gave me homework. Twenty pages, double-spaced, twelve-point font.”

“I have no idea what that means,” says Victor honestly.

“You never wrote papers in college?”

“I won gold medals.”

“Ouch.”

“It was a very bad way to learn anything,” says Victor, as if he’s only just realizing it.

They duck inside the lobby of the theater, hit with a blast of heat so thick that Yuuri’s glasses immediately fog over. He’s temporarily blinded, but the quick glimpse he’d had was enough to show that the lobby is just as ornate as the exterior.

“Here,” says Victor, pulling Yuuri to the side. “Give me your coat.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri. He pulls off his coat and hands it to Victor just as the fog begins to dissipate.

Victor doesn’t take his coat immediately, though. His hand is outstretched, but the horror on his face as he stares at Yuuri’s suit says everything.

“Uh,” begins Yuuri.

“Yuuuuri. What _is_ that?”

“A suit?”

“No,” says Victor firmly. “It’s a travesty. I’m tempted to give you back your coat.”

“Ha,” chokes Yuuri, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. Victor, of course, looks perfect. His suit and tie are casual but impeccably fit, a shade somewhere between grey and black that looks incredibly expensive. Next to him, Yuuri looks like he possibly found his suit on the back row at the Detroit Goodwill.

Which he nearly did, until Celestino dragged him to Men’s Wearhouse instead.

Yuuri pulls his coat back. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, ready to wriggle it back on.

“Yuuri,” says Victor patiently. He pulls the coat back out of Yuuri’s hands. “It’s fine! This gives us something to do tomorrow.”

“Eh?”

“Buy you a new suit,” says Victor. There’s a gleam in his eye at the prospect of shopping. Yuuri can’t think of anything more daunting.

Yuuri stays in his nook while Victor checks in their coats and collects their tickets. It’s the perfect place to stand; he has an excellent view of the entire lobby. The room is breath-takingly beautiful, with white marble floors and a high ceiling. The chandelier is a hundred tiny suspended lights hanging at various levels, and beyond that is a curved wall that shines golden and reminds Yuuri of the surface of the sun. By night, it’s probably hauntingly gorgeous. By day, it’s still stunning.

_No wonder there’s so many people standing near it. Looking at that wall is like drinking in liquid sunshine_ , thinks Yuuri.

The lobby is packed with people. Now that he’s calmer, Yuuri realizes that his suit isn’t very much out of place. No one is wearing ball gowns or tuxedos, and while there are some men are wearing what are clearly designer suits, Yuuri’s is far from the worst out there. He even spies someone wearing a bolo tie, which is such a ridiculous, out-of-place thing that he immediately starts looking for the cowboy hat to go with it.

The only ones really dressed to the nines are the little girls in their best party dresses, ruffles and bows and taffeta, hair done up in ringlets and tied with satin ribbons larger than their heads. They stand meekly by their parents, or they race across the marble floors, sliding on patent leather shoes and squealing with glee.

He’s still watching them when Victor returns, carrying two wine glasses. “What’s so funny?” Victor asks.

“Nothing,” says Yuuri. “I wish we could bring the triplets here.”

Victor hands him a glass of wine and looks at the little girls as they go careening past. “Hardly the Japanese Ballet in Fukuoka, but it’ll do.”

“It would have been fun to go with them like we’d planned,” says Yuuri, still watching the children, who are now pretending to waltz across the marble.

“Mmm,” agrees Victor. “I thought we’d have more time to take them after your Nationals, or I would have purchased the tickets for before Christmas instead of after. I’m sure Yuuko and Takeshi enjoyed going in our places, though.”

Yuuri breaks into a smile and pulls out his phone to call up his photo gallery. “I forgot to tell you! Yuuko sent me the pictures of the girls all dressed up. Axel wore her hair _down_.”

Victor widens his eyes in mock surprise as he wraps his hand around Yuuri’s to better angle the phone. He swipes through the photos of the triplets, all wearing bright smiles and brighter dresses. “It’s _possible_? I thought their hair was glued into place.”

“She says they had a wonderful time. She was sorry she couldn’t thank you in person, but...” Yuuri’s voice trails off. The lights in the lobby begin to blink; the mood instantly shifts. The girls’ parents call them back as the crowd moves toward the theatre doors, but the going is very slow.

Victor takes Yuuri’s hand as they join the slow shuffle to their seats. “We can call them after the ballet, if you want?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “It’ll be too late. They’re six hours ahead, remember.”

“Tomorrow morning, then. We can be a little late to practice.”

Yuuri smiles at him. “Yuuko would like that. The girls will be in school, but maybe we can set a date to call this weekend.”

Victor nods. “Of course.” He pauses. “Everyone returns on Saturday. I thought we’d have them over on Sunday, if you like.”

Yuuri glances at Victor. “Ready to share me again?”

“Never, _solnyshko_ ,” Victor assures him. “But…”

He doesn’t finish. Whether it’s the jostle of people around them or because Victor’s trying to figure out where they need to go for their seats – or because there’s a thousand things he doesn’t want to admit, Yuuri doesn’t know.

“We can make them katsudon,” says Yuuri when there’s a break in the crush of people.

Victor grins at him.

Once they reach the stairs, it’s much smoother going. It’s not until they step into the theatre itself that Yuuri realizes that Victor’s purchased them seats in the balcony.

It’s not until he’s sitting at the front row that he realizes there are _multiple balconies_ , and theirs is very nearly private, with only six chairs in all.

“Wow,” is all he can say, staring around the theater.

“Not the best seats,” admits Victor. “But very good for a last-minute purchase. I’m surprised they were even available.”

_Not the best seats?!?!?_

_I can practically touch the curtain over the stage!_

“Wow,” Yuuri says again.

“Yuuri,” says Victor, “we never did have a serious discussion about whether or not we want to have children. We should probably have that conversation. Do you want children, Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s already in shock over the seats and the view and the sheer opulence of the theater.

Victor’s statement is more than Yuuri’s poor head can take, and he spins in his seat to stare at him, mouth dropped open and eyes flying wide and hair practically standing on end.

_WHAT?!?!?!_

The lights, of course, immediately go out, and the overture begins as the curtain rises.

The entire first act of The Nutcracker is filled with children. Yuuri can’t even look at them without Victor’s words bouncing around in his head.

_Victor wants kids._

_No, wait, he didn’t say that. He just said we hadn’t talked seriously about it. We’ve joked about borrowing the triplets for the day, and babies who look like both of us, but that’s all we’ve ever said._

_Of course he wants kids! He’s always so good with the triplets._

_I’d be awful with kids. What if we had triplets? Yuuko’s girls are all right, but we could always send them home after a few hours. I think I’d end every day in tears if I had to deal with them for more than that._

_And one of us would have to quit skating! I’m not going to ask Victor to quit, not when I just convinced him to come back!_

_Would he want me to quit? I’m the obvious choice, there’s no way I could support Victor and three kids on my sponsorships. I can barely support myself!_

_And then there’s clothes and formula and cribs and toys and school. Oh God – where would they go to school? I don’t even know if there’s fees for schools in Russia! Would they speak Russian or Japanese? We speak so much English at home, what if their first language was English? My mother would be heartbroken if she couldn’t speak to her own grandchildren._

_Oh, no. Makkachin. She’s old, she might not want to share the apartment with three babies. What if they were bothering her and she bit them? We couldn’t keep her, but Victor loves her. Where would she go? Would Zhenya take her again? My parents would, but would Makkachin even survive the stress of that trip again?_

“Yuuri?” Victor whispers to Yuuri. The entire theatre is applauding except for him. It’s not the end of the act – it hasn’t been near long enough for that – but it’s clearly a change in tone, and somehow Yuuri’s missed the entire party scene.

“Oh,” he says, raising his hands to clap along with everyone else.

“Are you all right, _solnyshko_?” whispers Victor.

“No, I’m not! Makkachin is _much_ too old to fly back to Japan!”

“Huh?”

The music swells before either of them can say another word. Yuuri’s lost in another run of frantic worrying – only this time, he’s worried because he can feel how tense Victor is next to him.

_Well, shit,_ thinks Yuuri. _Victor’s going to start thinking that I’m plotting to steal Makkachin in a massive dog-napping ring that stretches across the entire figure skating community._

When the first act ends and the lights come up, Yuuri turns to Victor before the applause has even died down.

“I’m not dognapping Makkachin,” he says immediately.

Victor blinks at him, mid-clap. “I… know that?”

Yuuri lets out a sigh of relief. “You… you can’t just _spring_ that kind of question on me, Victor! You _know_ how my mind works!”

“Actually, I don’t,” says Victor. “It’s probably one of the reasons I find you so very surprising. What question did I spring?”

Yuuri wants to scream in frustration, but Victor is pure innocence next to him, waiting expectantly as if he hadn’t asked anything remotely enormous at all.

_Curses on your god-awful memory_ , thinks Yuuri scathingly.

“You asked if I wanted kids, and I had this vision of triplets who looked exactly like you all tormenting Makkachin and hanging off the roof of the building while holding Yakov hostage until we supplied them with soy sauce flavored Kit-Kats.”

Victor’s eyes go wide. “Wow.”

“And they all play _football_ ,” concludes Yuuri.

“At least your father would be happy,” muses Victor.

Yuuri shoves him lightly. “ _Vitya_.”

“I admit, I’m surprised,” says Victor. “ _Soy sauce_ Kit-Kats?”

Yuuri groans and sinks down in his chair, covering his face with his program. “You’re the one who gave them _grape-flavored soda_ when they were two. Don’t blame their chocolate preferences on me.”

“Please tell me we name them Flip, Toe Loop, and Salchow.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yuuuri!”

Yuuri sighs heavily. “Combination Spin, Change Sequence, and Camelback.”

Victor laughs so hard that he nearly falls off his chair. Yuuri’s own giggles threaten to make him do the same. They’re still laughing when the lights begin to blink again, and Yuuri notices the people in the next balcony glaring as if worried that they won’t be able to control themselves in time for the second half of the ballet.

“Do you, though?” Yuuri whispers to Victor as they resettle into their seats. He’s tucked into Victor’s side now. The laughter still rolls under his skin. “Want kids. Joking and biological impossibility aside.”

“I never thought about it much,” admits Victor. “I mean – I like watching you with the little girls in your ballet classes, but that’s not the same. And it’s not that I don’t _like_ kids, but… I like being able to do things like this.”

“Vitya,” says Yuuri, “we’re at a ballet _for children_.”

“You know what I mean,” says Victor. “Get up and do as we like. Not have to worry about taking care of someone else. Our lives don’t revolve around someone else’s needs or schedules or sicknesses. Look at what Yuuko or Zhenya have given up to have children. I don’t know that I can be that selfless.”

“Me either,” admits Yuuri. He rests his head on Victor’s shoulder. “What if one of us changes his mind, though?”

“Then we revisit the discussion,” says Victor easily. “Combination Spin and Camelback aren’t going anywhere.”

Yuuri pokes him in the stomach. “Hey, now, don’t forget Change Sequence.”

Victor scoffs. “Change Sequence is a goalie for the Polish national team. They’re _dead_ to me, Yuuri. _Dead_.”

Yuuri bursts into giggles again. They keep giggling as the lights go down and the curtain rises.

“ _SHHHHHHHHH!_ ” hisses a woman in the next balcony, clearly fed up with their nonsense.

Victor struggles to compose himself, and Yuuri takes a few breaths in an effort to do the same. By the time Clara is comfortably settled on a throne, ready to watch the various confections of the second half of the ballet, Yuuri’s managed to settle himself down to really pay attention to the dance.

_And my homework for Minako-sensei_ , he remembers.

Victor’s hand is still wrapped around his, resting on his thigh. Yuuri steals a glance at the light shining on his fiancé’s face. Victor’s smiling, utterly engrossed in the action on the stage, and Yuuri’s struck with a surge of love for him so strong that he’s not sure how he manages to keep from leaping on him right then and there.

Victor turns and glances at him, the smile widening so slightly.

Yuuri squeezes his hand and looks back at the stage, flushing a little bit.

_Focus! Minako really is going to want a twenty-page paper, double-spaced._

Yuuri almost loses himself in the familiar ballet below.

_Almost_ , because he can still feel Victor’s eyes on him the entire time.

*

The ballet is _almost_ enough to keep Victor’s mind off Ostrava.

The shimmering lights on the stage, the music of too many junior-level competitions, the costumed dancers leaping in air and gliding on hard-wood floors instead of ice. They’re close enough that Victor can hear the thump of their landings, and it’s nothing like the sound skates make when they land on ice.

It’s still too close. Victor watches the dancers and finds himself imagining how to translate their choreography from slippers to skates.

_Yuuri’s enjoying this,_ he tells himself. It’s even true: now that the matter of progeny has been settled, Yuuri’s relaxed and focused. His mouth moves softly as he watches the principals glide across the stage, eyes tracking every step and hand gesture. He’s undoubtedly marking every move, trying to figure out how to incorporate them into his own performances, immersing himself into the world he gave up a decade ago when he decided to follow Victor’s footsteps instead.

It’s okay. Victor can give this to him, if he wants it.

_Just a little while longer_ , he tells himself. He tries to distract himself by focusing on Yuuri, picturing how exactly he’s going to take Yuuri apart that night in the quiet of their apartment. _Kiss every inch along his hairline. Lick the skin behind his ear. Butterfly kisses down the back of his neck…_

No sooner has the curtain fallen, but Victor pulls Yuuri out of his seat and into the hall. It’s slowly filling with people, and any hope of a quick getaway is dashed when they reach the top of the stairs.

“Is my suit that bad?” laughs Yuuri.

Victor’s forgotten entirely about the suit. Which really _is_ that bad.

“Horrible. My eyes are burning.”

“I’m not going to let you buy me a new suit just to save your eyes,” Yuuri tells him, amused.

Victor smiles as brightly as he can. “But Yuuri! Today is a _holiday_.”

Yuuri frowns. “A holiday.”

“Yes! The last Sunday in January. Celebrating the end of the holiday season. Very Russian holiday, when lovers exchange gifts.”

“Mm-hmm,” says Yuuri, sounding skeptical. “Gifts of clothing, of course.”

“Of course! It would be rude not to accept it, Yuuri. An absolute insult to me, my country, my culture – I’m fairly sure your visa stipulates that you have to accept gifts on all Russian holidays.”

Yuuri winces as the bottleneck finally breaks and they suddenly find themselves in the lobby again, where there are an equal amount of people and far more breathing space. “Right. How about I get our coats from the coat check?”

“That’s your gift to me,” Victor tells Yuuri cheerfully as he hands him the chit for the coats.

Victor checks his phone while Yuuri’s in line. His tailor’s closed, of course, but he fires off a quick email to ask for an appointment the following weekend, and then looks to see what else they might be able to do that afternoon. It’s still early; barely dusk, and he might have been thinking of all the lovely ways to take Yuuri apart a few minutes ago, but he knows what will happen. They’ll go home and make love and do laundry and have dinner and then it’ll be the headlong spiral into normal life, where Victor stays late at practice and Yuuri looks stressed and they both slowly take steps away from each other.

Victor doesn’t want that.

Easier not to go home just yet. 

“Yuuri!” he says brightly as soon as Yuuri returns with the coats. “Let’s go on a bus tour!”

Yuuri stares at him. “A what?”

“A bus tour! Or maybe a cruise down the Neva? That might be better, it’s cold but with sunset it’ll be lovely.”

“I was thinking we’d go home, actually,” says Yuuri as he buttons up his coat. “Maybe do some laundry, or take Makkachin for a walk together.”

Victor brightens. “That’s perfect, we can walk Makkachin to the Spire! There’s an outdoor art market, maybe they’re open in the winter? We can check. We can find something to send back to your mother, Yuuri, what do you think?”

He’s babbling, saying every idea that pops into his head, until he’s not even sure what he’s suggesting makes _sense_ for the end of January. Surely the art market is long closed; surely the Spire will be far too cold for sight-seeing. Surely Makkachin isn’t going to want to walk miles in the cold January evening.

Yuuri rests his hand on Victor’s chest. “Vitya,” he says gently.

Surely, Yuuri knows exactly why Victor doesn’t want to go home just yet.

“I’d really rather just go home with you,” he says.

_Home_.

Maybe it’s a slip of the tongue. Maybe it’s just a short-hand. But that’s twice that Yuuri has called Victor’s apartment _home_.

Maybe it’s what he even thinks.

_Home_.

Victor lets out a breath. “They left for Ostrava yesterday.”

Yuuri nods, not saying anything. He never does, Victor realizes, when there’s nothing to be said. When he _knows_ there’s nothing that needs saying.

It’s another surprising thing, because most other people would want to fill the silence. Yuuri’s content to let the silence speak for itself.

“You should be the one skating to silence, not me,” says Victor lightly. Yuuri just keeps looking at him. His hand on Victor’s chest is reassuring. Victor takes a breath and tries again. “Tell me what we’ll do at home.”

Yuuri smiles. He wraps his arm around Victor’s waist as they begin walking out of the lobby. “Oh, we’re going to be very busy.”

Victor raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Absolutely. First, we’re going to take off our clothes… and then _wash them._ ”

“ _Yuuuuuri_.”

“And then we’re going to go into your bathroom… _and scrub the shower stall._ ”

“I don’t think you’re even using that as a euphemism,” says Victor mournfully.

“The fact that you know how to say _euphemism_ in English and not _twelve-point font_ is proof that you spend too much time with Chris.”

“Correction: the fact that I can say euphemism in English _and_ French is proof that I spend too much time with Chris.”

Yuuri groans.

“ _Euphémisme_ ,” Victor adds helpfully.

“It’s cheating when it sounds the same.”

“I know! Let’s play Scrabble. You can spell Japanese words in Cyrillic and I won’t be able to prove you wrong.”

Yuuri bursts into laughter.

In the end, that’s exactly what they do. It works marvelously well as both an entertaining game _and_ a way to keep his mind off Ostrava. At least, it does until Yuuri manages to get 67 points on a single word and Victor decides that the only proper response is to have sex on the couch.

Yuuri doesn’t complain.

*

The ice is quiet without the senior skating teams – but the complex itself is louder. The cafeteria is buoyant, crowded with excitable younger skaters who seem to be much happier without the heavy weight of their elders sitting nearby. Their laughter and shrieks of glee bounce off the walls, enough to give Victor the start of a headache.

Victor looks dejectedly at his depleted lunch tray and thinks longingly of the pirozhki lunch from several weeks before.

“I hope Yura wins. I’d like an excuse for katsudon,” he says, tapping his fork against the very nutritious and extremely boring chicken breast that the nutritionist let him keep. There’s a few limp bell pepper strips on the side that might have once been a vibrant green. Or maybe they’re strips of boiled cabbage. It’s impossible to tell.

“Oh, Mila asked about that,” says Yuuri, looking up from his bowl of rice. There’s rice at lunch every day now, and Yuuri somehow always manages to keep his. Victor suspects that Anna might like Yuuri better than she likes him. “She wanted to know what time.”

Victor frowns. “She asked you?”

Yuuri’s shrug is a bit hesitant. “Yes? I’m sorry, I’m not sure why—”

“It’s fine,” says Victor, because it really is; he’s not sure why he was so surprised either. “It’s your home too.”

“It was yours first. And it does make more sense to ask you. I’m not sure what time you had them over before.”

“Lunch. If that gives you enough time for the katsudon.”

“Plenty,” Yuuri assures him. He taps his fork against his lips. “She also said something about invading the _love nest_.”

Victor chokes on his chicken. Yuuri waits for him to finish. “Ah. I didn’t actually call it that.”

“I didn’t think you had.” Yuuri sounds mostly amused.

“It was worse when Georgi was offering suggestions for a honeymoon, and Yura started shouting and pretending to throw up.”

Yuuri’s eyes crinkle with amusement, and maybe a little embarrassment. “It’s not actually a love nest.”

“Or a honeymoon.”

Victor waits for Yuuri to say something in response, but Yuuri’s frowning at his bowl of rice, no doubt concentrating on maneuvering the grains onto his fork and regretting his forgotten chopsticks at home. “We should probably talk about that, though.”

“Hmm?”

“The honeymoon?” prompts Victor. “Where do you want to go?”

“Usually one needs to be married first,” says Yuuri absently.

“We should probably talk about that, too.” Yuuri frowns again at his food, and Victor kicks him again. “ _Yuuuuri,_ I’m beginning to think you don’t _want_ to be married to me.”

Yuuri jumps in his seat and looks up, startled. “What? No! I didn’t… I bought the rings, Victor!”

“Good luck rings. I’m the one who called them engagement rings.” Victor frowns and taps his mouth with his finger. “You know, except for asking me to remain your coach, you never really _did_ propose. How can I be sure this engagement is real?”

Yuuri’s eyes widen. Victor wonders if he took the teasing a bit too far.

And then Yuuri’s eyes narrow again. He leans in and lowers his voice. “Because I brought home a gold medal, sealing the deal. You’re marrying me, Victor Nikiforov, whether you like it or not.”

Victor’s heart twists in delight. “Am I?”

“ _Da_ ,” says Yuuri.

Victor glances to either side to ensure none of the children surrounding them are watching, and then darts in for a quick peck on Yuuri’s lips. They’re a bit sticky from the rice, and he can taste the faint salty flavor of soy sauce. “Fine. We’ll need to decide where we want to have it, and who we want to invite, and what kind of service. And what we’re wearing. I suppose we’ll need flowers and food and music. Probably someone should lead the ceremony and I don’t care what Chris says, he is not going to officiate for us.”

“Oh, God, no,” groans Yuuri, leaning back and digging into his rice again. “Do we have to talk about all of this _now_?”

“You brought it up.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“We can take one step at a time. I think the most important question first is _where_. Your family is all in Japan, mine is in Saint Petersburg, and our friends live around the world.”

“The moon. Let’s go with the moon.”

“Excellent, I like the idea of a destination wedding. Now we’ll need to discuss transportation.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Nope, that’s tomorrow. One problem a day.”

“Fine.” Victor glances at the clock. “I was going to the lounge for our free period. I have to work on the elements for my free skate, but I could be persuaded to cuddle on one of the couches instead.”

Yuuri shakes his head, but he sits up a little bit straighter, and Victor can see how he’s already planning. “No, that’s all right. Yulia recommended a yoga class I want to try.”

Victor makes a face, and Yuuri grins and pokes him with his toe. “I knew you’d make that face, that’s why I haven’t gone before.”

“Have fun finding your chakra,” says Victor.

There’s a lightness to Yuuri’s steps as they split up after lunch. Victor watches him go, a slight smile on his face, because watching Yuuri when he’s happy is always a good feeling.

Watching him be happy to do something that doesn’t necessarily involve Victor, though – well, it’s still a good feeling, Victor supposes. They might not want to be apart, but that doesn’t mean they have to be joined at the _hip_.

All of the time, anyway.

The lounge is a pleasant place to work. In the beginning of the season, it’s where the coaches come to sit and calculate technical scores, but now, midway through the season, it’s the domain of the younger school-age students doing their school work. They spread out on tables in ones and twos and threes, giggling as they ignore math or science or literature. They lean over the backs of the couches, sharing various images on their phones in real-time, practicing their skills with paper airplanes, and playing whatever ridiculous, juvenile game strike their fancies.

Victor watches them absently, in between doing his own work. He remembers being the same, far more interested in comparing skating notes than class notes. He’d never minded the tutors and self-taught nature of an elite skater’s life.

Yuuri would have hated it. He would have been the kid sitting by the window, studying alone without joining in the fun, focused only on the end result and not beyond it.

_That’s why he doesn’t want to talk about getting married,_ Victor tells himself. _He’s focused on Worlds. It’s not because he doesn’t want to be married. Just that with Yuuri, it’s one thing at a time._

Victor shakes his head and turns back to his work, adding numbers over and over again. His short program’s technical elements are about the same as JJ’s and Christophe’s, just a little higher than Yuuri’s, but he’s neglected to pay attention to the technical score of his free skate, instead focusing on the story and the choreography instead. It’s backwards to how he normally works, and now he’s paying the price.

His free skate’s technical score isn’t high enough. Part of the problem is that he’s only working with the elements he’s managed to land successfully in practice up to this point, and those don’t include the quad flip or the quad toe loop.

There’s no question. He needs to land his quads with enough frequency that he can put them in his program and be relatively assured of landing them. If Yakov is right, and the FFKK is still watching him – he’ll need them within the next two weeks if he’s going to ensure his attendance at Worlds.

“Ah, Victor Nikiforov,” says a familiar stern voice. Victor slams the notebook shut before he even connects the voice to the name, as if his subconscious is already well-aware of the speaker’s identity.

Valentina Maratovna smiles at him from the other side of the table. Her eyes flick down to the closed notebook and the open scoring manuals.

“Valentina,” says Victor politely. “What a very pleasant surprise.”

“It must be so very odd for you, being here with all the small children, while your teammates are in Ostrava without you. What brings you here?”

_As if she can’t tell what I’m looking at._ “Just working on my free skate technical score.”

Valentina sniffs, amused. “Very good to hear. I understand it’s rather – weak, at best.”

Victor’s heart skips a beat. _Did she just admit to spying on my practices?_

He _could_ call her on it… but he’s not entirely sure it’s the best idea. “I’ve been working on a new arrangement and theme. I think you will find the finished product much improved.”

If Valentina hears the implication that he knows she’s spying on him, she doesn’t show it. “I should hope so. You’ll remember that the number of entries we have at next year’s Worlds is determined by how our skaters do this year. We would rather not drop further down the ranks to _one_ Russian skater.”

“As I said – you will not be disappointed.”

“But will Yuuri?” asks Valentina mildly. “How does your technical score compare to his? A high base score is a very good starting point to a conclusion that will be satisfactory to all involved.”

Victor sets down his pencil before he snaps it in two. “You could just ask if I’m in it to win, or if I’m along for the ride.”

“I could. But why, when you understand my meaning well enough?” Valentina leans over the table to Victor, lowering her voice. “Please understand, Victor. We only have your best interests at heart. We don’t want to drive a wedge between you and your lover – but it is—”

“Fiancé,” says Victor through gritted teeth.

Valentina stares at him. “Of course, my mistake. _Fiancé_. Victor, you must know that it’s very important we maintain the ground Russian Skating has regained in the last twenty years. You are very important to us, Victor. You are important to skating. You are important to _Russia_.”

Victor tries to breathe. “I know that.”

“Good. Then you understand why we make these demands. We want the best for you and for Yuuri. You must trust that we know what the best is.”

If Victor didn’t know any better, he’d almost think she was sympathetic. There was a time when he thought she was.

He’s not entirely sure why he thought that now.

“How very pleased you must have been when I came back,” says Victor through gritted teeth. “Considering you never thought it best for me to leave in the first place.”

Valentina sits up a bit straighter. Her eyes narrow. “Of course we were pleased. But even you must admit, both your departure and your return were unexpected.”

Victor could admit it. He doesn’t want to give Valentina the satisfaction.

“Plans were made in your absence. We had thought Yuri Plisetsky would need an extra year before taking your place as Russia’s Living Legend. He’s so young, and of course the medical staff tells me that he still hasn’t reached his projected height yet. In a perfect world, he would have stayed in Juniors another year or two, until he’d finished his growth spurts and settled into his adult body. Fifteen is so very young for men to transition to the Senior circuit, even for those with Yura’s talent. But Yura – he’s too competitive. Too much like you, really. Once you left – there was no stopping him.”

Victor’s smile is wry. “As if you don’t relish the idea of Yura going head to head with me on the ice.”

Valentina doesn’t rise to the bait. “This year was meant for Georgi. One last season without living in your shadow.”

“That’s very unfair to Georgi.”

“Yura is Russia’s skating future,” says Valentina harshly. “Georgi is retiring after this season.”

Victor frowns. “Does Georgi know?”

“It’s just such a pity,” continues Valentina, tapping her hand on the scoring manual. “Yuri has only one year, perhaps two, before his body finishes maturing and he has to acclimate himself to an entirely different style of skating. Who knows where that will leave him, particularly since now he’ll do it with the pressure of the Senior circuit watching his every move. Georgi has trained for years, only to receive the scraps you’ve left behind. This so easily could have been his year to shine. I do hope you can make your return worth what they’ve had to give up for it.”

Valentina stands straight again. “Have a pleasant afternoon, Victor. Do keep me informed about your progress.”

“Of course,” says Victor stiffly before Valentina walks away.

Victor takes a few moments to steady his breath after she goes. By the time he’s ready, he’s late for meeting Yuuri.

In the end, it doesn’t matter – Yuuri is late meeting him, and comes running into the weight room, flushed and beaming.

“How was yoga?”

“Hmm? Oh, great,” says Yuuri, flustered. “Fantastic. Lots of fun. Definitely doing that again.”

It’s more enthusiasm than Victor would anticipate, even for yoga, which Yuuri’s always enjoyed. It takes him most of the next hour to figure out what it is.

It’s not just that Yuuri’s excited about yoga.

It’s that he’s _proud_. There’s a sense of accomplishment that hangs around Yuuri, a bounce to his step that keeps propelling him forward all afternoon. Now that Victor’s pegged it, he wonders how he missed it.

Then again, the only other times he’s seen it from Yuuri are the times he’s landed a new jump.

There’s a strange pit in Victor’s stomach, watching Yuuri talk to his weight trainer, Ivan. It’s not jealousy, or envy, or sorrow.

It’s something much smaller than any of that, more like a disquiet that keeps gnawing at him.

It gnaws harder that afternoon, when Yuuri runs through Eros again, and nails every single jump perfectly, including the quad flip.

“Beautiful,” says Victor. He means it, especially when Yuuri’s eyes light up with pride.

“Are you going to stay?” Yuuri asks when the skate is over. Sasha and Anastasia are by the coaches’ tables, talking and shuffling papers quietly.

“I could, but…” Victor shrugs as he snaps on his blade guards. “I’d rather go home with you.”

Yuuri flushes and can’t quite meet his eyes. “Oh. Okay. Um. If you want a couple extra minutes, though – I have to run that DVD up to Yulia, I didn’t get a chance earlier.”

Victor chuckles. “All right. I’ll work on my choreography and meet you by the doors in twenty minutes?”

“Yes,” says Yuuri. He throws a quick glance at the coaches to make sure they’re not watching, and leans forward and kisses Victor quickly on the cheek. “I’ll be there.”

The little gnawing worry in the pit of his stomach stays with him, long after Yuuri’s left. Victor stands alone at center ice in the silent, echoing rink, with Valentina’s words echoing in the back of his mind.

_We only want what’s best for you…_

“Victor?”

Victor turns on the ice and stares at Sasha by the doors. “What do you want?”

Sasha wears his heavy coat and his scarf – as if he’d been headed out, and then changed his mind to return. He’s frowning at Victor.

“I thought you were going home with Yuuri.”

“I am,” says Victor stiffly. “We’re meeting at the front doors in twenty minutes.”

Sasha looks uncomfortable. Victor’s not entirely sure why, but he likes seeing it. “All right. I just thought – if you’re staying, I can stay and help with your quad flip.”

“I’m fine,” says Victor. “Tomorrow’s soon enough.”

Sasha gives him a strange, knowing sort of look. “Of course. Tomorrow.”

He turns and leaves, the door banging on his way out.

Victor waits until the echoes die away. He closes his eyes and imagines himself moving on the ice.

_I can see it – every move, every gesture. Every emotion laid bare…_

Imagined music swirls around him; he moves on the ice without thinking, feet and legs and arms twisting, as his imagination lifts him into the air before gently setting him back down where he belongs.

_Yuuri’s waiting_.

He goes, leaving the ice to be wiped smooth for the next day.


	25. The European Championships

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I am crap at keeping to a schedule, and for that I apologize. September always ends up being a tough month for some reason, and this year was no different. Thank you all for your patience and good wishes, they were greatly appreciated.

** Chapter Twenty-five: The European Championships **

Victor is so late getting home on Monday night that he misses the first hour of the men’s singles short program. It’s not _really_ his fault – but Sasha had insisted on the extra-long massage session. That the masseur had an opening was a miracle, really, especially when two-hour slots were hard to find.

“You should do it,” said Yuuri as they changed after afternoon skate. “It’ll probably be impossible to find a slot after everyone gets back from Europeans.”

Victor had brightened. “Yuuri! You should come with me! It can be a _couples massage_!”

For someone who’d grown up in an onsen, Victor had always marveled at the way Yuuri could get very embarrassed by personal contact with… well, anyone, really. Yuuri had immediately started backing up and stammering about how Makkachin was expecting them and there were things he needed to purchase and oh my, look at the time, he really needed to get going.

“Maybe on the honeymoon!” Victor had called at Yuuri’s retreating back, mostly because it was funny.

 The massage really _had_ been worth it; Victor’s muscles ache in extremely pleasant ways, and he feels so much more relaxed that he forgets why he was hesitant to go in the first place. He doesn’t even mind that Yuuri’s already watching the competition without him.

“ _Tadaima_!” he calls. Makkachin lets out a welcoming bark, but doesn’t appear.

Yuuri’s relieved voice floats out of the lounge. “ _Okeri_! I was beginning to think you’d miss it.”

“Traffic is a nightmare,” explains Victor, shedding his coat and toeing off his shoes. “Who have I missed?”

“Of the people we know, Georgi and Emil. Mila’s _relentless_ , she keeps texting me.”

“Me too,” says Victor. He leans through the doorway, drinking in the sight of Yuuri curled up on the couch, with Makkachin’s head in his lap. They look warm and comfortable and incredibly inviting, and he feels grungy, still slick with the massage oil that clings to his skin and his clothes. “Who’s next?”

“Chris is up in about ten minutes. Yurio’s right after. I’ve been recording it, so we can see Georgi and Emil later, but we can watch Chris and Yurio live if you want?”

“I’m afraid of what either might do if we don’t.”

Yuuri chuckles. “Go jump in the shower, I’ll heat up your dinner.”

“You ate already? Makkachin, I think the honeymoon’s over,” moans Victor.

“I was _hungry_ , you were _late_!” Yuuri calls after him, good-natured to a fault.

The shower is blissful on his aching muscles. Victor would be perfectly content to remain in it, but he’s hungry, Yura is evil, and Chris has dirt on him. They’re announcing the scores for the previous skater when he rejoins Yuuri on the couch. Makkachin stretches between them, still mostly nestled on Yuuri’s lap.

“Oh, no,” groans Victor as he takes the plate of food sitting on the table. The man on the screen has makeup even worse than Georgi’s get-up, and his costume is so drenched in sparkles and sequins the camera can’t even focus on him. “It’s another Georgi.”

“He’s French.”

“That explains much,” says Victor wryly. “Oh, good, he scored terribly, we won’t have to watch his free skate.”

“ _Vitya_ ,” chides Yuuri, pushing his feet under Victor’s legs.

The image switches to Chris, shaking out his limbs as he settles at center ice. There’s a few hoots and hollers from the audience. Chris, true to form, winks and smiles saucily in their direction.

“The problem with Chris skating before Yura is that I may not want to watch Yura afterwards,” Victor observes as the music begins.

“Eh?”

“Well,” says Victor, resting one hand on Yuuri’s leg, and beginning to rub up and down lightly, “you have to admit that Chris’s performances are usually quite… inspiring.”

Yuuri snorts. “D’you think there’s a drop in viewership after Chris skates?”

“Undoubtedly.”

It’s a bit odd to watch the competition from home, knowing that what he’s watching isn’t a recording but happening _then_ , _immediately_. That when Chris jumps on the screen, he’s somewhere a few thousand miles away, jumping in front of an audience and judges and friends.

“He’s better,” says Yuuri suddenly. “If he’d skated like this in Barcelona, he might have been on the podium.”

“That’s why he’s skating like this now,” says Victor. “He’s got something to prove.”

Yuuri is completely still as he watches. Only his chest rises and falls with every breath he takes – or every breath he holds as Chris performs on the ice.

As for Victor… he can already sense something different in the way he views Chris’s performance. When he’d watched it in Beijing and Barcelona, he’d been watching as Yuuri’s coach, trying to determine how Yuuri could manipulate his own program to turn out a better score.

Now – Victor’s not thinking of Yuuri’s program at all. He’s thinking of his own, how it matches up to Chris’s. Is it strong enough? Is it difficult enough? Will the judges appreciate Victor’s interpretation of the music the same way – or better – than they do Chris’s seduction?

Victor can’t help but chuckle.

Yuuri glances at him. “Not exactly the expected reaction.”

“No, but Chris would approve,” says Victor. “I’m watching him as a competitor, and not a coach. He’ll like that, he told me in Barcelona it wasn’t the same without me on the ice.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri. He turns back to the television, where Chris finishes his program without a single flaw. When the scores are posted, he’s in first place.

Chris blows a kiss to the cameras. Jokingly, Victor reaches up, grabs it out of the air, and taps the kiss onto his cheek.

“That might not have been meant for you,” says Yuuri, amused.

Victor leans over and touches his “kissed” fingers to Yuuri’s cheek, too – only instead of a tap, he turns the touch into a tender caress that makes Yuuri blush as his eyes go wide.

“I don’t think Chris will mind, do you?” says Victor, drawing his fingers under Yuuri’s chin, before moving back to his own end of the sofa. Yuuri keeps staring at him, and Victor smirks as he goes back to eating. After all, toying with Yuuri is _much_ more fun when he’s assured that they’re going to end up sleeping in the same bed next to each other at the end of the night.

Besides, Yura’s about to start skating, and Victor’s oddly curious how he’ll view the performance.

Victor leans forward as Yuri begins to skate. It’s the same program as in Barcelona, crystalline and haunting. While it’s not quite the same program that Victor choreographed for Yuri in Hasetsu nearly a year ago, the way Yuri skates it now takes Victor’s breath away.

It was always a beautiful program. It’s only watching Yuri skate it that Victor realizes that it’s possible Yura skates it better than he ever would have done.

Yuri crashes on his last jump and ends up missing most of the final choreography; Yuuri gasps in shock, but Victor’s eyes narrow.

_He over-rotated and tried to compensate. He knows better than that, Yakov’s going to rip his ears off in the kiss-and-cry. At least it was the last jump and not the first; Yura’s had more experience now but I’m not sure he’d be able to overcome that mistake as well as he will in a few more years._

_And… huh. I’m looking at him as a coach, and not a competitor. Interesting._

“Ohhhh,” sighs Yuuri when the scores are posted. “Third.”

“And Chris in first – who’s in second?”

The tally board is posted, as if the television producers anticipated Victor’s curiosity.

“Never heard of him,” says Victor with a frown.

Yuuri squints at the screen as he mouths out the Cyrillic. “ _Victor_. Yes, you have. He was on Georgi’s DVD. Malik Blake, from the UK.”

“Hmm. We should watch his short program,” muses Victor, tapping his chin with his finger. “Along with Michele Crispino’s, since he’s in fourth. Is this the last skater?”

The man on the ice now isn’t anyone Victor recognizes – and it doesn’t matter much anyway, because he’s clearly not going to make it to the top ten. As he falls on the ice again, Victor muses it’ll be lucky if he even qualifies for the free skate.

“I’ll find Blake’s skate,” says Yuuri once the final performance is done. Victor reaches for the remote, but Yuuri navigates the interface with ease, skipping backwards about an hour to the beginning of the program.

_He must have figured out how to use it on his own_ , thinks Victor.

“Is it strange?” asks Yuuri, without looking at him.

“Is what strange?”

“Watching everyone else.” Yuuri shakes his head. “Never mind. Of course it’s strange. I couldn’t watch the Four Continents or Worlds last year.”

“Not the same thing, though,” says Victor without thinking, but Yuuri doesn’t wince.

“No,” agrees Yuuri softly, and presses play. The commentators’ discussion seems loud and particularly grating in the soft silence of the room.

Makkachin hoists herself up from Yuuri’s lap with a yawn, dropping down to the ground with a thump. She turns and rests her chin on Yuuri’s legs with a mournful look in her eyes, tails wagging lazily back and forth.

Victor groans. “I forgot to take her out when I came home.”

“I’ll do it,” offers Yuuri, a little bit reluctantly. He slides his feet out from under Victor’s thigh. “I’ve seen all of this already anyway.”

“I’ll wait until you’re back,” says Victor, but Yuuri shakes his head.

The smile Yuuri wears is one Victor recognizes from television interviews. _His brave face._ “No, it’s fine. We won’t be long, Makkachin never wants to stay out longer than a few minutes. Come on, girl, the sooner we’re out, the sooner we’re in.”

Makkachin follows Yuuri out of the room. Michele’s program is starting on the screen, but Victor ignores it in favor of listening to Yuuri gather his coat and hat and Makkachin’s leash, the cheerful thunks and clicks of the door opening and closing behind him.

The soft _thump_ of the door closing echoes in the apartment. Victor thinks it sounds like his heart beating in his chest, which is romantic even for him.

On the screen, Michele lands a quad. Victor realizes how little he’s paying attention when he can’t even figure out which one, but judging from the reactions, it’s something he should note.

There’s a ping from his phone: Yura’s made a new Instagram post.

**yuri_plisetsky  
** [Image: Yuri in his costume, scowling at the camera with three fingers raised] ****  
Primed and ready for GOLD in my FS tomorrow!

Victor chuckles and double-taps the picture of Yuri. It’s not the best picture, but he appreciates the sentiment. He ignores Michele’s skate as he types out a comment.

**v-nikiforov** We watched, you looked great! Take ‘em all by storm, Yura!

**christophe-gc** Ah, Vitya, I thought you’d be cheering for me? I missed you so much today, it won’t be the same winning gold if you’re not here.

**yuri_plisetsky** YOU NEVER WON GOLD OLD MAN, RETIRE AND LEAVE IT FOR THE NEXT GENERATION. I AM COMING FOR YOUR ASS.

**christophe-gc** The sad thing about skating with children is that there are no comments I can make without being arrested.

**yuri_plisetsky** DELETED. BLOCKED. IGNORED.

*

“I had a horrible thought,” says Yuuri halfway through their afternoon skate the next day.

“Hmm?” Victor frowns as he watches the video playing back on his phone. The soft sounds of Yuuri’s skates in the video echo even more when coming from tiny speakers, and he can hear his elated shout of surprise as Yuuri lands the quad flip perfectly.

“Okay, two horrible thoughts,” amends Yuuri. “The second being why you look so grim when I just landed three quad flips in a row.”

“I can’t figure out what’s different,” complains Victor.

“Apart from me _landing_ them?”

“You had everything _right_ before, but you weren’t landing them. And now you are, and I’m not sure _why_.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes and laughs. “I’m breathing Russian air? I don’t know, maybe I’m just getting it finally. I’ve done them enough, it had to click at some point.”

“Hmm.” Victor stops the video before it can loop again and sets the phone down on the table on the other side of the boards. “That’s the second thought. What was the first?”

“Is Christophe’s short program about me too?”

Victor freezes. No, that’s not quite right.

He _stops_.

_Oh, shit. Please don’t be right._

Apparently that’s enough for Yuuri, who turns white and leans on the boards for support. “I mean… it’s a song called _Intoxicated_. I didn’t really think about it much, you know? It’s _Chris_. But watching it again last night, knowing that he actually _pole danced_ with me at last year’s Grand Prix and I don’t remember any of it because – well, _intoxicated!_ ”

_Oh, shit. He is right._

“Yuuri,” says Victor.

Yuuri’s going slightly hysterical now. “It’s not completely crazy! _You_ were going to skate about the Grand Prix banquet in your short program! And I wasn’t even _naked_ when I danced with you!”

_Somewhere, Chris is laughing at me._

“Yuuri.” Victor’s voice is a bit more strangled now.

“Oh, no,” gasps Yuuri. “Michele’s free skate. It’s _Serenade for Two._ I have never in my entire life hoped so hard that he’s skating about his sister as I am right now.”

Victor’s hand darts out and covers Yuuri’s mouth.

“I really, really need you to stop talking now,” says Victor, a bit wildly.

Yuuri’s response is muffled. “Me too.”

“And there is no way I could possibly kiss you into shutting up when right now all I can think about is either Michele and Sara Crispino, or Christophe _pole dancing_.”

“Agreed.” Yuuri’s breath is warm on Chris’s fingers.

“Stammi,” says Victor suddenly.

Yuuri smiles in relief. “The duet?”

It’s a good idea – and Victor would like nothing better, because he realizes that they haven’t skated it in nearly a month. He’s been so busy with other work, trying to choreograph his new free skate and commit his short program to memory.

But.

“No,” he says, regretfully. “I won’t be able to skate it with you in Gangneung. You should skate the solo version.”

Yuuri only looks disappointed for a moment. “All right.”

Victor has the thought the moment Yuuri reaches center ice, and he scrambles to pull his phone back up. He misses the first few moments of the skate – but by the time Yuuri has started to really move, Victor is recording.

“Ah, there you are,” says Sasha, coming up from the other side of the boards while Victor records. “The offer to watch with the coaches still stands for the free skate, you know.”

“Thank you, but no,” says Victor firmly. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but it isn’t often that Yuuri and I have some time to ourselves at home.”

“Of course,” says Sasha. “I understand. You want to keep him to yourself.”

Victor glances over at Sasha before concentrating on the video he’s taking of Yuuri. “If this is about my coaching style—”

Sasha’s quiet for a moment. “You’re a good coach, Vitya. I admit we were somewhat worried when we heard you’d taken him on—”

Victor’s heart squeezes in his chest. For a moment, Yuuri skates out of frame, but Victor quickly adjusts to bring him back into it.

“Yuuri is a good skater. You should be proud of what you’ve done for him so far. No one is questioning what you have done for him. Only…”

“Only?”

On the ice, Yuuri jumps again. He touches the ice briefly but keeps moving. “It doesn’t seem very fair to him to bring him here and then deny him the opportunity to take advantage of everything that has made you what you are. Don’t you want to see what he could achieve, if you let him?”

It’s another echo, and for a moment, Victor has a strange pang in his chest, one that he doesn’t recognize at first.

_Guilt_.

Victor presses his lips together. “I think he’s progressing very well, actually.”

Sasha watches Yuuri for a moment. “Your new free skate program…”

“Yes.” The words feel like grit in his mouth. “You looked over it?”

“I did. Are you sure that’s what you want? It’s a difficult combination of jumps, even for you.”

“Do you think I won’t be ready?”

“I think you’ll be ready to perform it, yes. My only concern is that if you perform it perfectly—”

_There’s a good chance I’d win gold over Yuuri._

“Yuuri wouldn’t appreciate me holding back on him,” says Victor.

“Remember that,” says Sasha mildly. He walks away just as Yuuri completes the skate.

*

Christophe wins the gold.

Victor isn’t surprised. Despite feeling sorry for Yura – who still comes in at a respectable second place – he’s elated for his friend.

He’s a little less elated when his cell phone starts ringing at 2am the morning after the free skate.

“Victor?” Yuuri says fuzzily as Victor’s phone dances on the bedside table, glowing blue and pink in the darkened room. Victor groans and buries his head in the pillow. He might wake up earlier than Yuuri does as a general rule, but that doesn’t mean he wakes up _well_.

Maybe if he feigns sleep, Yuuri will think the phone is his and answer it for him.

Sure enough, after a moment, Yuuri leans over Victor’s prone body and picks up the phone.

“Chris, it’s the middle of the _night_.”

_I’m going to kill Chris,_ thinks Victor drowsily. _Right after Yuuri hangs up this phone and snuggles back under the covers with me._

“VIIIIIIIITYYYYYYYAAAAAAAA!” sings Christophe, so loud that Victor can hear it despite the pillows. “You _promised_ you’d be here.”

“Victor’s _asleep_ ,” hisses Yuuri.

“I _won_.”

“I know, we watched,” says Yuuri patiently. “Five hours ago. _When it wasn’t the middle of the night._ Go to sleep, Chris.”

“Is this Yuuri? _Yuuri_. I’m so bored without you, Yuuri. I brought a pole and no one here wants to dance with me.”

Yuuri groans. Victor feels a thump that is surely Yuuri’s head hitting his ribcage. “How drunk are you?”

“That depends. How drunk do I need to be to get you on a plane out here?”

“I’m hanging up now,” says Yuuri firmly. Despite Chris’s vocal protests, he does. Victor hopes he switches it to silent before he drops it face-down on the sidetable.

“Mmm.” Victor shifts again, this time to face Yuuri as he slides back down under the covers. “Was that Chris?”

“Yes. I think he was drunk.”

“He won gold, he’s allowed,” says Victor, pulling him close. “Mmm, you’re _cold_.”

“You keep it _freezing_ in here, that’s why.”

“How else am I supposed to keep you close?” murmurs Victor, nuzzling Yuuri’s neck.

“Not something you need to worry about,” Yuuri assures him.

The words slip out before Victor can stop them. “So you say.”

It’s quiet in the room for a moment. Yuuri shifts again, putting a bit of space between them. “Vitya?”

Victor stays very still. There’s an odd hesitation in Yuuri’s voice. Not quite accusatory, not quite defensive.

Worried. It’s enough to make Victor berate himself for doubting.

_Stop it. It’s Yuuri. He’s not going to keep a secret from you again. You’re on the same page now._

“Are you worried about the Four Continents?” asks Victor.

“No,” says Yuuri, still distant.

“Good,” says Victor. He doesn’t say anything else.

*

The team returns too late on Saturday to join them at the rink, so it’s not until Sunday afternoon that Victor and Yuuri see them, when they all come over for lunch. Victor can’t contain the excitement; before Yuuri, he’d always had people over, in ones and two and threes. As much as he’s enjoyed having time to themselves, he’s still excited to have company again.

He’s possibly even _more_ excited that Yuuri’s cooking katsudon. It’s a very close tie.

“Yuuri!” cries Mila as she bursts into the apartment and dashes straight into the kitchen. “It smells so good in here!”

“It’s my mother’s katsudon,” explains Yuuri, turning away from the stove to give her a hug. “It’s Yurio’s favorite.”

“Even if he didn’t win,” sings Victor as he pulls the vodka out of the freezer. There’s already wine on the counter. What Yakov doesn’t know about the amount they consume won’t hurt him.

“Shut up, Nikiforov, I’ve won gold more recently than you,” grouses Yuri as he hops up to sit on the island.

Victor doesn’t pause, he just shoves Yuri off the island with a hand on the center of his back. “Down, _kotenok_ , stay off the countertops.”

“What’s with the banner?” calls Georgi in Russian from the entryway. His arms are crossed and he’s looking curiously up at the banner Yuuri insisted on hanging. The Russian is almost jarring amidst all the English they’re speaking.

“I think the banner is wonderful,” says Mila, enunciating the English as if to prove a point. Georgi flushes.

“Sorry,” he says in English, a bit sheepish. “I forgot.”

“It’s okay,” says Yuuri. “You don’t need to switch languages just for me all of the time.”

“Yes, but Georgi needs the practice in English if he’s going to woo his girlfriend,” teases Mila.

Victor’s head pops up from the cabinet where he’s retrieving the vodka glasses. “Girlfriend? I don’t remember a girlfriend.”

“That’s because you have the memory of a dishtowel,” Yura tells him.

“She’s not a girlfriend,” says Georgi, defensive. “She’s a friend. Who is a girl.”

“I want to hear about this girlfriend,” says Victor.

“I want to know who made the banner,” retorts Georgi.

“Yuuri’s idea,” says Victor. “He was very disappointed that there wasn’t a plan to hang welcome signs for you at the rink.”

“Yuuko put up a banner just because you _showed up_ ,” Yuuri defends himself. “And everyone ended up on the podium, even if they didn’t win gold.”

“Winning medals is supposed to be a matter of course, not a matter of celebration,” says Victor.

“Says the man who wants to tile his bathroom in them,” counters Yuuri.

Georgi shakes his head, laughing.

And then, completely inexplicably, he _tousles Yura’s hair_.

“Oi!” shouts Yura, dropping the orange he’s been peeling in order to frantically ruffle his hair back into its typical messy arrangement. Georgi, still chuckling, heads out of the kitchen. “Go moon over Victor’s Olympic gold again, you—”

Yura descends into a stream of curses in Russian. Victor doesn’t _think_ Yuuri catches all of them, but he’s still staring after Georgi in shock.

(Georgi, of course, goes into the bathroom with Victor’s Olympic gold.)

Mila easily pulls Yura off the counter and carries him out of the kitchen. “Be nice, Yura!”

“ _Put me down, hag!_ ”

“Did… Georgi just _laugh_?” Yuuri says, in complete wonderment.

“He’s been known to laugh on occasion,” says Victor, amused.

“Wow,” says Yuuri.

Yura marches past them back into the kitchen. “I hate her,” he informs Victor, Mila on his heels.

“No, you don’t,” choruses Victor and Mila at the same time.

Mila’s eyes shine as she spots the new appliance on the counter. “Ooo, Yuuri, is that a rice maker? I always wanted to try one.”

“It’s pretty easy, I can show you how it works,” offers Yuuri. “As soon as Yurio gets off the counter.”

“Oh, easy,” says Mila brightly. She pulls Yuri off the counter by grabbing hold of an ankle.

“You’re gonna break my leg!” he howls. Victor hands him a plate piled with pickles.

“Be useful, or I might forget Russia doesn’t have a drinking age,” Victor tells him. Yuri scowls, but starts ferrying things to the table.

The katsudon is eaten almost as quickly as it’s set down in front of the hungry skaters. Georgi and Mila both lavish praise on Yuuri in between bites; Yura doesn’t bother, he’s too busy shoveling the food into his mouth.

“You could have some,” says Georgi, eyeing Yuuri’s bowl, which is devoid of the fried pork and egg. Instead, Yuuri has a piece of lean chicken and a mix of roasted vegetables.

“He hasn’t won anything yet,” explains Victor, happily eating his own bowl of katsudon.

“Oh,” says Georgi, nodding his head knowingly. “A reward. Very wise.”

“Not stopping you,” says Yura with his mouth full.

Victor grins. “Katsudon is Yuuri’s reward. _My_ reward is—”

The rest of Victor’s reward is lost to ages as a piece of roasted eggplant hits him square in the cheek. Yuuri continues eating calmly, even if his ears are bright pink.

“Natto, rice, and fried egg for breakfast,” says Yuuri primly, as if he did not just throw a piece of roasted eggplant at his fiancé in a desperate bid to get him to shut up.

“Ew,” says Yura, wrinkling his nose. “Keep it.”

“What’s natto?” asks Georgi.

“Disgusting,” says Yura.

“Yuuri, didn’t you win Japanese Nationals?” protests Mila.

“I already had katsudon for that,” says Yuuri. “Anyway, I had to taste this to make sure the flavor’s right. I’m okay.”

“It’s terrible,” says Yuri, scraping the bottom of his bowl. “Is there more? You should let me eat it, save yourselves.”

Mila tousles his hair. “So sweet, putting himself ahead of the rest of us.”

“That’s the judges, not me,” says Yuri.

Victor glances at Georgi, expecting a wince – but Georgi doesn’t react except to spear another roasted zucchini with his fork before shoving the entire piece in his mouth.

_He never reacts, though. Not unless it’s on the ice. If it’d been me, losing to Yura…._

_It might be me. If I can’t get my quads under me again._

“You should make this for Beka, when he wins the 4Cs,” continues Yura.

“Except Beka’s not going the win the 4Cs,” says Victor. “Yuuri is.”

Yura scoffs. “Yeah, sure.”

“He can do it,” says Georgi, without looking up from his bowl.

Victor doesn’t miss the shock on Yuuri’s face. “Thanks, Georgi.”

Georgi waves his fork. “You _can_. At least, you stand a better chance against JJ than Otabek does.”

Yuri growls. “Beka’s a _thousand_ times better than that stupid big-headed Canadian.”

“Aw, it’s so sweet that Yura’s found a friend,” says Mila. “Vitya, you’ve met him. Is he good enough for our Yura? Have you checked this boy’s credentials? Are we absolutely sure he’s not an axe murderer?”

Victor grins and leans closer to Mila, happy to play along. “Nice guy, likes cats, rides a motorcycle.”

“Oh!” Mila sits up, her eyes bright with sudden interest. “I think I need to get to know this boy better.”

“SHUT UP, HAG!” shouts Yuri, right before Georgi reaches over to slap the back of his head. “ _Ow_!”

Georgi continues as if the last few minutes haven’t occurred. “Neither Otabek nor JJ have the experience that Yuuri’s had. Yuuri will probably be largely ignored, even with his recent successes, and that’s pressure he knows how to take. Whereas there is a sizable community that believes it should have been Otabek and not JJ on the podium in Barcelona—"

“No shit!” mutters Yura.

“—And they’ll be much more focused on whatever rivalry is going on between the two of them.  JJ’s not used to be painted as the bad guy, and Otabek’s not used to the spotlight at all.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, eyes wide. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You should have,” says Georgi. It’s not said unkindly, even if Yuuri slouches down in his chair and stares at his bowl of rice again.

“There’s more katsudon, if anyone—” begins Yuuri.

“Yes,” says Yuri, sitting up and shoving his bowl at Yuuri so fast that he’s a blur.

Yuuri laughs and takes the bowl. “Okay. But you’re helping.”

“Don’t let him help, he’ll keep it all to himself!” cries Mila.

“Like you deserve it!”

Victor watches as Georgi slips out to the enclosed balcony. The others are still talking and laughing in the kitchen – well, laughing on Mila’s end, shouting insults on Yura’s – so he takes a moment to follow Georgi, grabbing a bottle of the vodka and their glasses on the way.

“It’s a good view from here,” says Georgi when Victor joins him. “You can almost see the bay.”

“If the day’s clear,” agrees Victor. He sets the glasses on the small table and pours them both a shot of vodka. “What you said about JJ and Otabek—”

“Ach,” groans Georgi. He picks up the glass and swirls the liquid gently inside. When he speaks again, it’s in Russian. “I don’t know. Yakov says I spend too much time on strategy and not enough on the ice.”

“Maybe.” Victor picks up his own glass and lifts it in a toast. “To the wondrous dance that is our chosen lot in life, performed on ice and forever being splintered into shards that are judged by others.”

Georgi chuckles and clinks his glass to Victor’s. They both drink, but only Georgi comes up coughing.

“I would have expected better vodka from you, Vitya.”

“It’s good with pickles,” says Victor. He shoves the plate closer to Georgi, who takes one. “I watched your programs. Best I’ve seen from you all season. If you’d skated that way a few months ago—”

Georgi snorts, a half smile on his face. “Then Yuuri wouldn’t have squeaked through.” He pours out another shot of vodka for them both. “Don’t pretend you’re sorry about that.”

“All right. I won’t.” Victor watches as Georgi puts down the bottle again, but neither of them reach for the glasses. “But you should stop pretending you don’t care that you didn’t place better than third in Ostrava.”

Georgi laughs. “You think that matters to me?”

Victor frowns. “Doesn’t it?”

Georgi shakes his head. “The problem with you is that you think everyone’s goals are the same as yours. You’ve been winning for so long, you forget there are other reasons to skate in the world.”

“Why skate at this level if you don’t want to win?” challenges Victor. “Isn’t winning the _point_?”

Georgi shakes his head. “I’ve already won. I could win more, I give you that. But every time I finish well enough to keep being invited back, every news article and television retrospective in which I appear – that’s my win. That’s what I want when I skate.”

Victor snorts. “You’re after _celebrity_?”

Georgi sighs and shakes his head. “No. That’s a by-product. That’s not why I skate.”

Victor leans forward. “Then explain it to me. Because that’s what you described.”

Georgi picks up the glass of vodka and spins it in his fingers. “Yuuri and Yura – they skate to win. That’s what they want – they want to be the best. They want to stand on top of the podium. Mila, it’s the same thing.” He glances at Victor. “You were the same, when you were their age. It’s not a bad thing. It keeps them sharp.”

“You don’t want to win.”

“I want to prove myself,” says Georgi. “I know you think I put on your gold medal when I come here.”

“Everyone puts on the gold medal.”

Georgi shrugs. “Because if you were everyone else, you would do it. You’d even stand there, look at your reflection in the mirror, pretend you could hear the anthem play. I don’t _want_ gold, Vitya. I never wanted gold. But in order to get what I want – I have to have it, or at least get as close as I can to it.”

“What is it you want?”

Georgi gives him a look. “You don’t know? And here I thought you paid attention to your competition. Maybe it’s that you never saw me as competition, did you? At least, not so serious that you felt the need to read up on me, beyond what I’m capable of doing on the ice.”

“That’s the only thing that matters,” says Victor.

Georgi shakes his head. “I would have thought that Yuuri taught you better. It’s not what you can do on the ice. It’s what you do off the ice with what you’ve done on it. You want to know why I skate? Why I’ll keep skating, until the day I’m no longer invited onto the ice? It has nothing to do with medals, or whether or not I’m on the podium. I don’t want to go to Worlds because I could win, or because I’m looking for celebrity. I want to go to Worlds to prove that I _can_ , because my entire childhood was full of people telling me I couldn’t. Even the people who believed in me – they never believed I could even get this far. Every time I compete – every time someone sees me on the ice – I’m proving that it’s not an impossible dream for someone like me.”

Victor has no idea what Georgi means – but he has the feeling that if he were to ask Georgi to explain, he’d find himself doused in two glasses of vodka.

He says it before he thinks it. “Valentina Moratovna thinks this is your last season.”

Georgi lowers his glass. “I’m considering it, yes.”

“But if you want to be noticed—” begins Victor, and Georgi cuts him off.

“Giacometti is thinking about retirement, too.”

Victor hearts squeezes in his chest.

_I’m the oldest skater here now_ , Chris’s voice echoes.

“He won,” says Victor, the words thick in his throat.

Georgi shrugs. “We talked about it before the short program. He wants to see what happens in Boston before he makes a decision.”

Victor tries to keep the inhale slow and steady.

_He wants to see what I’ll do_ , he thinks, but that isn’t right, and he knows it.

“It’s not like we could go on skating forever,” continues Georgi. “Retirement comes to us all. Sometimes it even sticks.”

“Ha,” says Victor wryly.

Georgi shrugs and leans against the glass windows. The smile on his face is patient, almost amused. “Not everyone is Victor Nikiforov, who can skate until he’s dead or bald.”

Victor glares at him. “Asshole.”

Georgi grins at him and runs a hand through his thick, heavily styled hair.

Victor wants to give Georgi a friendly shove, just like they’d done when they were ten years younger and more evenly matched. When it still could have been either of them on the top of the podium – and sometimes, it even was.

Instead, he lifts his glass again. “To defying expectations, providing inspiration to those who need it most, and proving worth on a world stage.”

They drink, and slam down their glasses together.

Georgi is still smiling. “I think you might mean that, Vitya. Even if I don’t think you understand why.”

“Of course I mean that,” says Victor. “Your hair is extremely inspirational.”

Later, when Georgi and Yuuri are egging Yuri on in the kitchen, tipsy and laughing and singing raucous drinking songs, Mila sits next to Victor on the sofa and curls up on the side not occupied by Makkachin.

“Georgi was so happy you joined him on the balcony,” she says, tucking her feet under her. She speaks in Russian, of course – and it takes Victor a bit longer to switch his brain over from English than he’d like. There’s only the smallest amount of vodka left in the bottle now – barely enough for three shots, and that’s after the three or four he and Georgi shared on the balcony before coming in to join the party again.

“What’s his story?” asks Victor, watching them in the kitchen. He’s not sure what game they’re playing – they’re balancing things on Yuri’s head for some reason and taking pictures, and he has no idea why Yuri’s even allowing it. “And don’t tell me he really was born on the steps of the skating center.”

“Not quite the steps,” admits Mila. “His mother was a skater, like Yura’s. She…” Mila bites her lip. “She wasn’t well. Georgi was very sick when he was born. They didn’t think he would live. And then he did. They didn’t think he would walk. And then he did. They didn’t think he would _talk_ , or learn to read, or anything, really.”

“And then he did,” finishes Victor. In the kitchen, Georgi tries to balance a package of spaghetti on Yuri’s head. It keeps falling over, much to their amusement.

“Mmm.” Mila rests her head against Victor’s shoulder. “How can you not know this? He talks about it in every interview, always. He’s never made a secret of wanting his story out there, to inspire children who are the same. That even if their best is not _the_ best, it’s still worth achieving.”

“Huh,” says Victor. The package of spaghetti falls into the sink and water splashes out. Yuuri doubles over the island with laughter while Georgi fishes it out, cursing the entire time. “If he doesn’t go to Worlds, his season is over.”

“There’s other competitions,” says Mila. “You’re the only one who forgets that there’s more to life than the Grand Prix and the Europeans and Worlds.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue – _They’re the only competitions that matter_ – but watching the three skaters in the kitchen, he’s not sure it’s the right answer anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Kotenok (Russian) – Kitten


	26. Preparations

** Chapter Twenty-six: Preparations **

The faster the Four Continents Competition approaches, the faster Victor can feel time running through his fingers like the grains of rice that Yuuri buys in bulk at the grocery.

“You could have it delivered, if you don’t want to ask Marina to get it,” says Victor when Yuuri lugs the oversized burlap sack home. Victor wasn’t even aware that rice _came_ in burlap sacks, but there it is as Yuuri carries it into the apartment lobby, gripping it with two hands. It’s covered in Cyrillic, English, and Japanese lettering, and large enough that one of them could use it for a pillow.

“Or I could get it myself, like normal people,” says Yuuri cheerfully. “We’re not all made of money, you know.”

Victor can’t help but be hurt. “I’m not made of money.”

“No, you’re made of ice and gold medals.” Yuuri drops the bag of rice down on the tile floor as they wait for the elevator. “This is my weight lifting for the day. It’s only a little bit lighter than you are.”

“Only a _little_?” pouts Victor. Yuuri has that mock-self-righteous expression on his face, the one he wears when he’s trying to be serious. Victor loves that look; it makes him want to do unspeakable things to Yuuri’s ears. He shifts to stand a bit closer to Yuuri, who skitters away as the elevator doors open. “My Yuuri is teasing me now.”

Not that he minds. He likes when Yuuri teases him – he spent so long teasing Yuuri that it’s nice to have it reciprocated.

“You’re a very easy target,” says Yuuri as he swings the bag into the elevator. It lands with a solid _thump_. “Speaking of which—”

“Oh-ho,” says Victor, amused.

“Has Yurio asked you to carry anything to Gangneung with us?”

“Only half a dozen times,” says Victor. “Letters, pictures, a CD, and however many piroshki I can fit in my carry-on.”

Yuuri groans. “He asked me to take a _cat_.”

“A _cat_?”

“For Otabek.”

Victor chortles with glee. “A _cat_. What did you tell him?”

“That I’d have to ask my manager, except he didn’t understand the reference. He just started shouting about how you don’t control me and I’m a grown man capable of making my own decisions about what I pack in my carry-on luggage without having to check with you for permission first.”

 _Manager_? thinks Victor with a frown. “Of course you’re a grown man, Yuuri, I don’t understand why Yura would think you aren’t. And you’re certainly capable of packing your own suitcase.”

Yuuri stares at him blankly for a minute before shaking his head. “I never realized how much I appreciated Phichit until I met you. Or the education he gave me into American pop cultural references.”

“What does Phichit have to do with managers?” asks Victor, mystified. The elevator doors rumble open and Yuuri lugs the rice into the hall. “Am I your manager, Yuuri?”

“That’s sort of what I was implying, yeah.”

“Wow! In that case, let me commend you on how well you’re carrying that bag of rice, Yuuri. Do you think I can _manage_ to get your clothes off in order to give you a reward?”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, gives Victor a pointed stare, and with one smooth motion, swings the bag of rice onto his back. It lands with a squishy _thunk_ , after which, Yuuri deftly carries it the rest of the way to Victor’s door.

Victor doesn’t want to admit how weak his knees go, watching the way Yuuri stands up after hefting the bag to his back. Instead, he lets out his breath in a slow stream and makes a mental note to spend some extra time appreciating Yuuri’s thighs after dinner.

“I’d appreciate it more if you _managed_ to open your door, Vitya!” Yuuri calls over his shoulder.

Victor scrambles to let him in. He’s pretty sure Yuuri is laughing at him – but Yuuri’s laughter tastes delicious, and so he’s not going to complain.

The management jokes are still going strong the next morning (“I wonder how long I can _manage_ to keep making these jokes?” “Oh my God please stop I’m going to throw myself off the _roof_.” “But Yuuri, can you _manage_ to find the roof without me?” “Aaaaarrrrggghhhhh.”) when they arrive at Yubileyyny a few days before leaving for Gangneung.

They can hear the argument before they even open the doors to the rink – Yakov shouting in Russian about something, though Victor’s not entirely sure what or to whom.

“…needs that time to prepare. What you’re asking—”

“It’s not a request, Yakov – and it’s not _me_ asking it.”

Victor recognizes the voice the moment Yuuri pushes open the doors. Yuuri doesn’t even pause, clearly unconcerned by the Russian he doesn’t understand being spoken in the rink.

“No, wait,” he says, alarmed, but it’s too late. The voices echo in the rink. If it wasn’t clear before that the Russian spoken was in anger, it’s very obvious now. Yuuri turns to look at him, confused and suddenly apprehensive. He glances between Victor and the rink, unsure about going in.

Victor sighs. As much as he would rather have waited to go in, there’s no way Yakov won’t have noticed the door opening, even this small amount. “It’s fine, just… let’s give them some distance.”

“Why is Valentina arguing with Yakov?” Yuuri hisses as Victor passes him and heads straight to the opposite end of the bleachers.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Victor, as soothingly as he can. He sits on the ground and barely manages to stifle the relieved groan when there’s no longer any weight on his feet. Yuuri, at least, is too preoccupied with fretting to notice. “Yuuri. _Sit down._ It’s fine. It probably doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

“ _Probably_ ,” mutters Yuuri darkly as they begin to stretch out. Victor grabs the ball of his foot and pulls it toward him, wincing through the ache.

The argument settles down as they stretch, with Yakov grimly accepting whatever it is Valentina has ordered. To Victor’s surprise, Valentina looks equally exhausted.

 _I wonder why_. Victor strains to listen to the Russian; it’s harder to hear now that they’re not shouting at each other, but he picks up a word here or there. They’re talking about days and training and it’s almost as if they’re reminiscing about something Victor can’t quite pick up on.

Somehow, it doesn’t surprise him when Valentina walks over, her heels snapping loudly on the concrete. Yuuri sits up, ramrod straight and shoulders back, as if facing an executioner. Victor remains as he is, doubled over his right leg, fingers wrapped around the base of his foot.

“Victor Andreyevich, Katsuki Yuuri,” she says pleasantly. “How very good that I ran into you this morning.”

As if her being in the rink is an _accident_. “ _Dobroy utro_ , Valentina,” Victor says pleasantly; Yuuri echoes him, much more nervous.

“Your Russian is coming along,” says Valentina, but she doesn’t sound particularly admiring.

“ _Magdalena – ochen' khoroshiya uchitelitza_ ,” says Yuuri, stumbling over the endings only slightly His accent is so adorable that Victor wants to sit up and kiss him, despite the audience.

“It does make the proposal I have for you much easier,” Valentina continues. “Match wants an interview with both of you.”

“No,” says Victor immediately.

“What’s Match?” says Yuuri.

“A very reputable news program – don’t make that face, Victor, you look like a fish. It would be an excellent promotional opportunity for both of you. The Russian public is keenly interested in your relationship, both on and off the ice, _as well you know, Victor, stop making that face_ , and Match would like to profile you both in one of their segments.”

“ _Both_ of us?” Yuuri’s voice doesn’t quite end in a shriek, but it’s a near thing.  “Whatever Magdalena told you about my Russian is an abject lie.”

Valentina and Victor both ignore him. “I agree, it’s a wonderful opportunity,” says Victor, sounding like he actually means anything but, “but oh, what a shame, unfortunately we are leaving in two days for Gangneung.”

“I’m very well aware, which is why we’ve arranged for interviews tomorrow. Separately and then together. They’ll have time to edit and then play it during the competition. After all, it’s the first time Russia has had any representation, however slight, in the Four Continents competition.”

Victor doesn’t have to look at Yuuri to know he’s uncomfortable with the idea. “I’m Japanese.”

“Of course you are,” says Valentina, in a voice that drips with sugar. “I believe Match wants to promote the interview in conjunction with your performances, to be aired when we make the announcement of who will attend Worlds. The Four Continents will be aired on national television here. It’s always been such a niche competition, hardly as important as the Europeans, but of course there’s interest in taking a closer look at you, Yuuri. You should be pleased! All of Russia will be watching to see how you measure up after six weeks training here under Russia’s guidance!”

Yuuri’s alarm is practically tangible. “Um… Victor?”

Victor grits his teeth. “I admit I was hoping for better timing.”

Yuuri’s alarm ratchets up. “ _Hoping_? You _knew_ about this?”

“What better timing?” says Valentina. “You did agree, Victor, to something along these lines back in December.”

Yuuri doesn’t say a word; he doesn’t have to. Victor can feel the tension radiating from him without even looking at him, and it’s obvious Yuuri is staring hard at the back of his head.

“Fine,” says Victor flatly. “Two hours, no more.”

“They also want to film a practice session.”

Victor thinks that Yuuri might have stopped breathing. He still manages to smirk at Valentina, knowing he has a very good trump card in Yakov. “Yakov won’t allow it.”

“Actually, he has,” says Valentina Maratovna, smirking right back at him. “They won’t ask questions or interfere, they just want to record. They won’t even step on the ice.”

Victor resists the urge to kick her. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Yuuri’s not _quite_ catatonic – but it’s close. Victor springs up to his feet and reaches down to pull Yuuri up alongside him.

“Fine. Let’s go, Yuuri; if we’re going to give them a show, we’ll want to make sure we’re in top form,” says Victor. “Thank you, Valentina. I trust we’ll have the proposed questions in my box by the end of the day?”

Valentina’s mouth quirks, but Victor is determined to push back, at least a _little_. “Oh. _Of course_.”

Victor smiles brightly. “Thank you. Skates, Yuuri!”

Yuuri follows him easily to where they’ve left their skates, and to Victor’s relief, Valentina stays behind. She gives Yakov a brief nod before leaving the rink entirely. Victor can’t hide the relieved exhale when the door closes behind her.

“Victor,” hisses Yuuri as Victor leans over to put on his skates. “What was that about? Did you tell her we’d do an interview?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” He tugs the laces tight over his feet, trying not to wince. In a way, he’s almost looking forward to the brief break from the ice he’ll have during the Four Continents. Not from training, of course – but the thought of not lacing up his bruised and aching feet for a few days is almost heavenly.

Yuuri groans. “In other words, _yes_ , but your memory is swiss cheese, so—”

“It’ll be fine,” says Victor firmly. “I think I know the program, they like to follow around people who work together. It’s not meant to be serious. They’ll ask ridiculous questions like my favorite movie star and the last item of clothing I purchased.”

Yuuri blanches. “Oh no. _I can’t answer either of those_.”

Victor sighs. “Jeremy Renner and socks.”

“ _Socks?!?!_ You were in that store for an hour and a half and all you bought was _socks_?”

“Time to practice,” says Victor cheerfully, and rises to his feet. There’s a sharp ache in his left big toe; the nail had looked dark that morning, but not particularly unusual. Victor rocks his foot a little bit to try to figure out if retying the laces will help. It won’t. “I think you should work on your quad loop today. The one with the Tano, you remember it, Yuuri.”

The suggestion does exactly as Victor intended; it takes Yuuri’s growing nerves away from the upcoming interview and back onto the ice where at least they’ll be useful. “ _Quad loop?!?! I don’t have a quad loop in my programs! You can’t even do a quad loop in competition!_”

“Exactly! You want to beat me at World’s, don’t you, Yuuri?”

The smile Yuuri gives him has been known to make even the Nishigori triplets freeze in their tracks. “Why wait for Worlds? I took a kickboxing class the semester before the pole dancing.”

“You’ll have to put on your skates first!” sings Victor as he heads to the ice, leaving Yuuri muttering in annoyance back on the bench, still in his stocking feet.

Yakov glides to the entrance where Victor is removing his hard guards. “Vitya.”

“ _Dobroy utro_ , Yakov,” says Victor cheerfully. His toe doesn’t ache so badly when he’s walking. Trying to do any toe jumps, however… _Five_ , thinks Victor. _At the most, before anyone notices any change in how I’m approaching them._

_Or before I bleed through the boot. Either’s possible._

 “Don’t bother warming up. No private sessions with me today,” says Yakov gruffly. “I’ll be working with Yura and Mila exclusively.”

_I could try the flip, but… what?_

Victor straightens, setting his guards on the edge of the rink. “What?”

“Work with your student instead,” continues Yakov, already moving away. “He has a competition coming up, he’ll need your guidance.”

Victor scrambles onto the ice, ignoring the pain in his toe. “What are you talking about? Yuuri’s fine. He’s more than ready, he’s _been_ ready—”

“I’m not going to argue about this!” snaps Yakov. He skids to a stop and turns to face Victor directly. His face is nearly purple – but it’s not rage. Victor’s not sure _what_ it is. “You’re working exclusively with Yuuri for the next two days. We’ll resume our regular one-on-one sessions after your return from Gangneung.”

Victor’s heart is thudding, painful in Victor’s chest. “Yakov. I can’t just stop—”

Yakov snorts. “ _Now_ you worry about your training? Why should I bother training you, when you’d rather be training _him_? It figures – I give you two days to do exactly that, and now you complain about it! I don’t know why I expect anything different! Maybe you should use the next week to consider what it is you’re even _doing_ here, Vitya – are you a coach? Or are you a competitor?”

Victor is shaken to the core. “Yakov—”

“I don’t train coaches, Vitya,” snaps Yakov. “Come back to me from Gangneung a competitor – or don’t come back to me at all.”

Yakov turns abruptly and skates away; Victor slows to a stop, staring after him. It’s impossible not to remember the argument he’d heard Valentina and Yakov having.

_He needs every moment to prepare…._

_Will two days matter so much…?_

_He is a very, very different skater…._

_The difference between the podium and not…._

“Oi, geezer, you’re blocking the way,” says Yura. He glides to a stop next to Victor, squinting at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

Victor takes a breath. _Yakov has wanted me back all along_ , he reminds himself. _He never wanted me to stop skating. This is all from Valentina. Not Yakov_.

“Nothing,” says Victor, and chases after Yakov. “Yakov!”

Yakov’s shoulders slump a little before he turns around. “I told you—”

“Half an hour,” says Victor quickly. “Before lunch. Or the hour after it. I know there’s free ice somewhere. Meet me on it?”

Yakov sighs and rubs his face. “Vitya….”

“Yuuri’s busy at those times anyway,” Victor argues. “I’ve never babysat him during the rest of his training before—”

“You babysit him entirely too much as it is,” snaps Yakov. “Half the tracks on the ice are from you going over to check on him every time he bumps a knee! Maybe if you spend two days focusing on him, you’ll learn to focus on yourself for more than ten minutes at a time.”

“We wouldn’t be breaking any rules.”

“We’d be breaking a _few_ ,” says Yakov, but already Victor can see his resolve crumbling.

Victor takes a breath. “I want to add a quad loop.”

Yakov stares at him. “You’ve never landed that in competition before!”

“Better late than never,” says Victor.

Yakov looks like his head is about to pop off. “ _Fine_. I’ll let you know what I find.”

Victor grins at him.

“Go prepare your student!” snaps Yakov.

Victor’s toe throbs as he skates across the ice to join Yuuri and Mila, where they’re already doing their customary laps. It’s completely ridiculous to think it’s throbbing out of a sense of betrayal – toes can’t be betrayed, can they? – but Victor’s going to ignore it.

He almost catches up with Yuuri and Mila. Their arms are linked and their heads bowed to each other as they gossip and skate in front of him. It’s a sweet image, one that he knows would get a couple thousand likes on Instagram in a heartbeat and make Phichit jealous for weeks. (Or days, or hours, given how often Phichit gets the same number of likes so quickly.)

 _Tomorrow_ , Victor thinks suddenly. _I’ll be on the ice tomorrow but not skating for Yakov. I can have my phone on me then._

“Not even in _Japanese_ ,” Victor hears Yuuri say, “and this one’s in _Russian_.”

Victor slows down and glides behind them, listening.

“No one expects you to speak in Russian, though.” Mila: the voice of reason.

Yuuri sighs. “I knew that he does these interviews and all. I mean, that’s how I was able to follow him from Japan, right? But… I keep forgetting, you know? That anyone would want to bother with me, just because we’re together.”

“Well,” says Mila reasonably, “that’s just it. You’re _together_. People are interested.”

 _That’s not the only reason why they want to know about you though_ , thinks Victor. He’s about to skate forward and _say_ it when Yuuri speaks again.

“I guess. Just… even if I knew him first as _Victor Nikiforov_ , now? He’s just Vitya. Sometimes I forget that he’s famous at all.”

It ought to be a warm feeling, Victor supposes, hearing Yuuri say that. To know he’s been successful in being _himself_ , just as Yuuri had asked so many months before.

Instead, it’s a jolt of surprise. Maybe it’s the way Yuuri says it: as if he’s disappointed at the realization that even Victor can’t pretend normalcy for long.

Mila hums in response. “I think he forgets, too.”

Victor’s shaken even more.

“Huh?” says Yuuri, voicing Victor’s thoughts.

“The problem with being famous is that you forget it’s not everyone’s normal,” says Mila.

 _I thought I was normal_, thinks Victor, hurt.

But Yuuri and Mila are nearly at the turn now – once they start, they’ll see Victor behind them. The idea that they’ll realize he’s been listening in on their conversation is enough to push Victor forward, as if he’s been moving at speed all along.

“Yuuri!” he calls out, hoping his voice sounds as cheerful and unaffected by worry as usual. “Change of plans.”

Neither Yuuri nor Mila give him anything but open, unassuming expressions.

Well. Yuuri’s looking somewhat devilish, but that’s entirely different from violated.

“No quad loop?” asks Yuuri sweetly.

 _Ha_. “Yakov is letting me out of one-on-one so we can work on making sure you’re prepared for Gangneung,” says Victor.

Yuuri frowns. “But… what about you? This is your ice time, too.”

“Your competition is first, your performance is my top priority right now.” Saying it doesn’t take away the sting of having _heard_ it from Yakov. But it seems to have the right affect; at least, Yuuri doesn’t look like he’s going to argue it much, even if he does look somewhat… less than thrilled to have Victor all to himself. “What, don’t you want my undivided attention, Yuuri? I can hardly take my eyes off you if I don’t have to worry about my own programs.”

The teasing works perfectly; Yuuri flushes and shifts on the ice, exactly like a flustered novice. It’s too adorable. “That’s not – I mean – I want you to – I—”

“ _Ugh_ , stop flirting on my ice,” shouts Yura as he skids to a stop nearby. “Katsudon. Do you have space in your bag for a CD case?”

“I think so?” says Yuuri while Mila bursts into coos next to him.

“Ooooh, Yura! Did you make Beka a _mixtape_?”

“Shut up, hag,” growls Yuri. “It’s a _movie_.”

“It’s just so _sweet_ to see you making friends with other skaters,” sighs Mila. She reaches for his hand; Yuri fights and tries to squirm away. Victor grins as the two of them wrestle. Mila’s _strong_ ; Yuri doesn’t stand a chance.

Mila pats the back of Yuri’s hand affectionately. “Just remember, Yura – Beka doesn’t like zombie movies. Stick to the regular fare of vampires and werewolves, it’ll go much better.”

Yuri goes pale. “What— _how do you know that?_ ”

Mila drops Yuri’s hand. “Oh, good, you _do_ know. I wasn’t sure, you know – I mean, you didn’t know about that time in Ontario when he – never mind. I’m sure you’ll get to it eventually. When you’re old enough for that sort of story.”

Mila pats his cheek – Victor’s amazed she manages to do it without having her fingers bitten off – before skating away. Yura doesn’t hesitate to scramble after her.

“You can’t talk to him!” shrieks Yuri. “He’s _my_ friend! _Mila!_ What did you talk to him about? _What story did he tell you?!?!_ ”

“Huh,” says Victor, amused, as he watches them go. “I think she’s bluffing.”

“I’m not so sure,” says Yuuri, just as Yakov starts yelling at Mila and Yura to get back to work. “I think she really is talking to Otabek.”

Victor shakes his head. “And I thought he was such a good boy for Yura.”

“He’s _fifteen_ , Vitya,” says Yuuri, a bit sternly. “I think Otabek might be his first real friend.”

“Which is why I’m worried,” replies Victor, his voice just as stern. “He’s never had a friend before, and here’s this boy whisking him away on a motorcycle and paying attention to him outside skating. Now they’re trading music lists and movies and sending each other sealed letters.”

Yuuri at least looks a bit alarmed at that. “Sealed letters?”

“I have three or four in my bag for Otabek already.”

Yuuri groans. “Hasn’t Yurio heard of _email_?”

Victor shrugs. “He says he doesn’t trust some things to the internet.”

There’s a look on Yuuri’s face that Victor isn’t going to question – something along the lines of how he’s not entirely sure _Victor_ is more reliable than the internet when it comes to security – but seeing as how Victor’s already tried to steam open the envelopes, he doesn’t really have much ground to stand on.

“Vitya! Are you coaching or talking about the weather?” Yakov’s annoyed shout carries easily across the ice.

“Are we sure Yakov was a skater and not a town crier when he was young?” asks Yuuri.

“Are we sure he was _young_?” retorts Victor. “I’m warmed up. Let’s skate Stammi.”

“I thought you said we were saving it for Worlds.”

“Did I say that? How ridiculous.”

“You’re assuming I’m even getting on the podium,” says Yuuri, self-deprecating as always.

 _Two days can mean the difference between the podium and not_.

Victor cups Yuuri’s cheek in his hand, pushing his chin up. “Of course you are,” he says softly, gliding closer. “That’s why I’m spending the next two days with you and not Yakov, isn’t it? We’re going to make sure you’re on the very”—leaning closer—“top”—even closer—“block.”

Victor is so close he can practically feel the warmth from Yuuri’s mouth on his own lips. He can certainly hear Yuri’s aggravated and horrified shriek of indignation from the other side of the rink, and it only makes him smile a little more lecherously than before.

In comparison, Yuuri’s smile is a little bit goofy. “Okay,” he agrees, a giggle somewhere in his belly.

Yuri’s furious howling echoes off the elevated ceiling, followed quickly by the sharp clap of blades hitting ice, the _swish_ of a body hurtling itself through the air, and the _clap_ of it landing sharply back down.

“Well done, Yura! Do it again!” shouts Yakov in Russian. “Vitya, if that’s how you motivate your students, take it to another rink!”

Victor lets go of Yuuri’s cheek with a grin. “Seemed to motivate your student, too!” he calls back.

“ _Victor_!” hisses Yuuri.

“Stammi,” Victor tells him.

But Yuuri shakes his head. There’s a determined, resolved look in his eyes that makes Victor’s heart swell.

“Quad loops,” he says instead. “If I’m going to be representing _Russia_ ”—there’s a flash of _something_ in Yuuri’s eyes then, not quite distaste and not quite comfort—“then I better make it good, right?”

He gives Victor a shaky sort of grin and takes off for the clear patch of ice he’s long since carved out for himself in the melee of skaters.

Victor grins and is about to follow.

“Loops?”

Victor turns to see Sasha standing on the other side of the boards. Sasha’s expression is dismissive and clearly disapproving.

“What better way to surprise the audience, than by teaching Yuuri the only jump I can’t do in competition?” says Victor.

Sasha snorts. “And here I thought getting gold in an international competition would be surprise enough.”

Victor frowns. “You think Yuuri can’t do it?”

“On the contrary,” says Sasha. “I think he’s capable of much more surprising things than quad loops. But then, I’m not the one he’s looking to surprise.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make Victor feel better, though he’s not sure why.

“Victor!” calls Yuuri from across the ice.

“Coming!” calls Victor over his shoulder.

“Yuuri has his appointment with Katya at two,” says Sasha.

Victor’s eyes narrow. “He does.”

Sasha nods. “Rink 2. I’ll tell Yakov.”

Victor does _not_ want to be grateful to him just now. But still… “Thank you,” he grits out, only for Sasha to give him another brusque nod in response.

He has to break eye contact to join Yuuri.

He can feel Sasha watching him all the way across the ice.

*

“I am _so_ glad you came in today,” says Kathy when Yuuri closes the door to her office. “I need five minutes to vent about stubborn Russian men and their utterly _ridiculous_ opinions about anything.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri agreeably. “What’d Misha do this time?”

“Not Misha, Misha’s a doll,” says Kathy, waving her hand. “Misha’s _father_ , who is still confused why I’m working and not at home popping out grandchildren.”

Yuuri winces as he sits down on the couch. Despite the soft cushions on the couch, his thigh still hurts from where he slammed into the ice trying to land the Tano/Rippon combination during his practice with Sasha.

(“Stop over-rotating,” Sasha had scolded. “You keep using more power on the second jump. You lose control when you increase power and change your center of balance at the same time. One, or the other. A Rippon, or a second quad.”

“I can’t do a second quad,” Yuuri had replied, startled. “ _No one_ can do a second quad.”

“So they said about quads thirty years ago. But eh, perhaps that is not your goal to land the first. Let’s focus on the goal you _can_ do, not the goal you think you can’t.”)

Kathy – as usual – notices Yuuri’s discomfort, though she doesn’t say anything. She merely lifts her mug to her lips and watches him.

Yuuri sighs. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” says Kathy innocently. “This is my five-minute English-language gripe session, Katsuki, stop making it about you.”

Yuuri snorts. “As if your five-minute English-language gripe sessions don’t somehow always turn into _being_ about me two minutes in.”

“Which is why we have”—Kathy pulls out the timer with a flourish—“a timer!”

Yuuri watches while Kathy sets it. “I’m pretty sure this is not a method approved by the American Psychological Association.”

“A, neither of us is American. B, neither of us is _in_ America. And _C_ , you are not the one paying for my services, so.”

Yuuri sits up with a frown, ignoring the pain in his muscles. “Wait – does that mean _someone’s_ paying for me to see you?”

“I do get a paycheck, you know,” says Kathy. “Not that Misha’s father is willing _recognize_ it as actual money.”

“Who’s paying?” Yuuri has a sudden vision of being presented with a bill at the end of the season.

Then again, Valentina would probably accept payment in the form of silver medals, and silver medals only.

Kathy shrugs. “The JSF? Your sponsors? I don’t know, go ask the financial department. Do you see how quickly this conversation turned to you? This is why I have a timer.”

“Are you sure you’re certified to practice psychiatry?”

Kathy spins the timer so that it dings. “Oh, look at that, my time’s up. So tell me why you winced when I mentioned kids, Yuuri.”

Yuuri groans and lets his head hit the back of the couch. “It’s nothing. Just bruises from hitting the ice too hard.”

Kathy frowns. “I’m sorry, did you think you were the first skater to waltz jump through my door? ‘Fess up, skater boy, or I start telling you about the glories of Russian parenthood, courtesy my Russian father-in-law.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“I have ibuprofen.”

Yuuri sticks his hand out, and Kathy chuckles as she opens her desk drawer. “Is it really just bruises?”

“Yeah. There’s no pain on the bone, and I’ve got full mobility. No break, no strain.”

Kathy tsks sympathetically as she hands Yuuri the pills. “How many days until the Four Continents?”

“We leave on Wednesday morning.”

“No wonder Victor’s working you hard.”

Yuuri doesn’t say anything; he just swallows the pills and gulps half the tea in his mug before avoiding Kathy’s eyes.

“Ah,” says Kathy softly. “Who?”

“Sasha,” admits Yuuri.

“You’re still seeing him?”

“You don’t have to say it like _that_!”

Kathy holds up her hands. “You know that’s not how I meant it.”

“I know, but… it just _feels_ so much like cheating already. And all the ways I could use to describe it – sneaking behind Victor’s back, meeting in clandestine locations – telling lies about what I’ve been doing and where and when and with whom…”

“You aren’t cheating on your relationship with Victor by taking advice from other coaches, Yuuri.”

“Then why does it _feel_ that way?” Yuuri groans and rubs his head with his hands.

“Why do you think it feels that way?”

Yuuri makes a face at her. “Is that what you learn in psychology college? How to turn questions back at people?”

“I literally got my doctorate in it,” says Kathy smoothly.

“Ugh.” Yuuri sighs and goes back to staring at the ceiling. “It’s not like it’s hard to figure out. Victor started out as my celebrity crush, and then he became my coach, and then he was my b- _boyfriend_ , and now… of _course_ having anyone else coach me would feel like cheating.”

Kathy makes a noncommittal sound.

“What?” asks Yuuri warily.

“Oh, just interesting that you stumbled over _boyfriend_ , specifically,” she says. “And also that you skipped over the Sochi banquet.”

Yuuri sits up so fast, his head spins. “You know about the banquet?!?!”

“Officially, no. Unofficially, everyone knows about the banquet, Yuuri.”

Yuuri buries his face in his hands. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Is it true you don’t remember _any_ of it?”

“Yes,” mumbles Yuuri. “Which is why I can’t really include it. I don’t remember what Victor was to me during it.”

“Important.”

Yuuri looks through his fingers. “You mean – it’s important that I don’t remember? Or—”

“ _He_ was important,” says Kathy gently. “Sometimes I wonder – it’s common for trauma patients to forget things surrounding the traumatic experience. Not that anyone would call sixteen glasses—”

“Seventeen,” Yuuri corrects her.

“—of champagne _traumatic_. Unless it was very terrible champagne.”

“It wasn’t.”

“The point being: I sometimes wonder if the reason people have those black-out drunk experiences is because their subconscious knows that they wouldn’t be able to handle the knowledge of what they did in that time frame. If you had woken up the next morning and actually _remembered_ doing everything you did that night, Yuuri – how do you think you would have reacted?”

That’s easy. “Tried to drown myself in the hotel shower,” says Yuuri promptly. “And slunk back to Detroit, refused to talk to anyone in figure skating, finished my degree, and… um…”

Kathy’s expression hasn’t changed, except for the way her eyebrows are elevated.

“Oh,” says Yuuri, a little belatedly. “But… I did all that anyway. Why bother deleting the memory?”

“Because you were going to do all that anyway,” says Kathy. “Why bother storing it?”

“Because it was _mine_ ,” says Yuuri, sitting forward. “I _danced_ with Victor. I _talked_ to Victor. We laughed and joked and… you haven’t seen the photos, have you?”

“As far as I know, no one has, except for those there that night.”

Which does make Yuuri feel a little bit better, at least. “I was really happy in them. A lot happier than I remember feeling, anyway.” Yuuri sits back. “Knowing I felt like that… I think it would have helped. That Victor made me feel like that. That he _saw_ me. I think that was what hurt the most, you know. That he didn’t see me. Or I thought he didn’t.”

“Important,” says Kathy quietly.

“Yeah.” Yuuri sighs and looks at her. “Okay. He was my celebrity crush, he was _important_. Long before any of the rest happened. And now…”

Kathy waits.

“I’m keeping a secret from him that he’s going to hate,” finishes Yuuri bitterly.

“Are you so sure he would hate it?”

Yuuri snorts. “It’d kill him. And he’s already trying to kill himself by competing and coaching me. I just… I want to lighten his burden a little.”

“Don’t you think that _telling_ him would do that?”

“No! He’d just double his efforts to coach me _more_. So that I wouldn’t have to go to anyone else.”  Yuuri sighs and stares up at the ceiling again. “I can’t tell him. I know you disapprove.”

“It’s not my place to approve or disapprove, Yuuri,” says Kathy gently. “I’m just here to help you figure yourself out.”

“Great,” says Yuuri, deadpan. “Help me figure out why the hell I can’t get these fucking Rippons right.”

“It’s all in your head,” says Kathy sweetly.

Yuuri points at the timer. “I say we go back to talking about Misha and your lack of children.”

“Great idea,” says Kathy, and turns the timer to five minutes. “The biggest problem, I think, is that Misha’s father obviously wants me to stop working the minute I’m pregnant.”

“Would you?”

“Not the _minute_ , of course not. But do you see very many pregnant people in this building?”

“Not really,” admits Yuuri.

“And he wouldn’t want me to come back, either,” says Kathy pointedly. “Stay home, take care of the kids, let Misha be the man of the family.”

“You could let Misha stay at home,” suggests Yuuri.

Kathy laughs. “You should have seen his father’s face when Misha suggested it.”

“Misha’s a good guy.”

“He is,” agrees Kathy. “You know the biggest issue I have with having kids? _Traveling_. Can you imagine trans-Atlantic flights with children in tow? _Little_ children?”

“I’ve been on international flights with little children,” Yuuri points out. “Well – not traveling _with_ me, but on the same plane. You really don’t notice them too much once you’re asleep.”

“Little trips would be okay, maybe,” says Kathy.

Yuuri shakes his head. “You’d be at the mercy of the school schedule. I was kind of hoping that Yuuko could bring the girls to my first competition in Japan over the fall, but it interfered with school. I hadn’t really thought about them missing school, you know. I missed so much of it when I was competing, it didn’t really occur to me that a lot of parents might object to that kind of thing. Especially Yuuko. Takeshi came, but it wasn’t really the same.”

“You trained with them as a kid, right?”

“Yuuko mostly, until she was side-lined with a really bad knee sprain. It doesn’t bother her much now, but I think she’d have been on bedrest those last couple months of pregnancy even if she hadn’t been carrying triplets.”

“Will they be in Gangneung?”

Yuuri brightens a little. “No, the girls still have school. And it’s too far and too expensive – but Minako will be there. My old ballet teacher. And it’s only a couple hours off Japan, it’ll be much easier to call the onsen and talk to everyone than it is here. And Phichit! My rinkmate from Detroit. Yurio’s been giving us messages to give to Otabek, so we’ll probably see him too.”

Kathy smiles. “So you’re looking forward to it?”

“I am,” says Yuuri, sitting up a bit straighter in surprise. “I guess I’ve been working too hard to really notice.”

“Is that a good thing, you think?”

“Maybe? I mean – I’m not nervous about it. Not in the same way as I have been for other competitions.” Yuuri thinks for a moment. “Maybe that’s coming.”

“Or maybe you know you’re prepared.”

Yuuri snorted. “I thought I was prepared in Sochi last year, too. That didn’t turn out so well.”

“Anxiety’s a bitch,” agrees Kathy. “But it’s also unpredictable about when and where it strikes. Well – _mostly_ unpredictable. Do you think having people like Minako and Takeshi and Yuuko present help or hinder?”

“Hinde— no. Help. I wasn’t as nervous at regionals, and Takeshi was there with us. Minako was in Beijing, and Mari was in Barcelona – actually, Minako was in Barcelona and regionals, too. The only time I really let nerves get the better of me was in Moscow, when Victor had to go back for Makkachin. I didn’t have anyone with me then.” He shakes his head. “Or maybe it’s just having _Victor_ there that makes the difference.”

“Also a good possibility,” agrees Kathy.

Yuuri’s still shaking his head. “But that’s not good. I should be able to perform at my best even without anyone there.”

“Why?” challenges Kathy. “No one else is expected to perform without their coaches on the sidelines. Why should you be held to a higher standard?”

“Because—” Yuuri stops, mouth open. “I… I don’t know? Maybe because he can’t guarantee that he’ll always be there. If he’s competing too.”

_Because if I can’t compete without him holding my hand… then this will never work, both of us competing, him trying to coach me. Everything we’re trying now will have been pointless._

“I have to be able to do this without him,” says Yuuri.

There’s a troubled look across Kathy’s face, fleetingly – and then the timer goes off, ringing noisily as the timer rattles off the desk.

“Oh,” says Yuuri as Kathy fumbles to catch it. “We were supposed to be talking about your father-in-law.”

“This is why I _have_ the timer,” says Kathy, but she doesn’t sound all that worried. “If we talk about you all the time, you’ll never come back.”

“Not true,” says Yuuri. “I’m mostly here for the exposure to sunlight.”

Kathy laughs. “You feel ready for it, though, right? The Four Continents?”

Yuuri opens his mouth – but says nothing.

_Am I?_

He’d run through his programs that morning, knowing that every eye in the rink was on him. Yurio had scoffed and pronounced him “easy to beat for _me_ ”, which was probably praise. Mila had a dreamy look in her eyes that didn’t disappear when Yakov prodded her back to practice. Even Georgi had given him a smile.

Yakov had been gruff and told him to take care with his entry into the sit spins. He’d spotted Ekaterina working Yurio particularly hard on his layback, motioning to Yuuri as she explained something.

Anastasia had watched without a word, given him a sniff, and said in a tone that sounded as if she couldn’t believe her own words, “Your step sequences are passable.”

“Passable? _Passable_?” shouted Yurio, clearly indignant on Yuuri’s behalf.

“No one ever says that about _my_ step sequences,” said Victor, feigning hurt.

“Yours are never passable,” retorted Anastasia, much to Mila’s amusement.

Now, sitting in Kathy’s office… Yuuri thinks of JJ’s TES. He thinks of the way Phichit has the crowd wrapped around his bright and cheerful fingers. Guang-Hong’s determined and focused enthusiasm, the way Leo moves with his music…

He’s just Katsuki Yuuri. He’s not anyone.

 _I’m the Grand Prix silver medalist_ , thinks Yuuri. _For a little while longer, anyway._

“You’ll land the quad flip in Gangneung,” Sasha had said that afternoon.

“How can you be so sure?” Yuuri had said, breathing too hard to be annoyed with Sasha’s certain confidence. “I haven’t been able to land it all _day_.”

“Because,” said Sasha calmly. “You’re ready.”

 _Believe in me, more than I do. That’s all I need from you_.

Kathy is still waiting for his answer. She’ll wait the entire hour for him to speak, if that’s how long it takes.

Yuuri doesn’t need the whole hour to know what believes.

“Yes,” he says, his voice only shaking a little. “I’m ready.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know what Yakov and Valentina were talking about, you can read their conversation [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16292855).
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  Magdalena – ochen' khoroshiya uchitelnitza (Russian) – Magdalena is a very good teacher.

**Author's Note:**

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